


Unto The Breach

by Darmys



Series: Long Road Home [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Alternate Universe - The Highroad Trilogy, Canon-Typical Deaths, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Past Benny Lafitte/Dean Winchester, Past Dean Winchester/Nick Munroe, Period-Typical Racism, Referenced Past Rape/Non-con, Revolution, Robot!Baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-09-04 23:30:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 98,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16799203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darmys/pseuds/Darmys
Summary: Sam and Dean set out on a journey of danger and discovery. Joining forces with a band of outcasts and rebels, they plan to strike a blow for freedom against the vast and powerful empire which stole Bobby from them.This is the second part of a massive space opera trilogy. Based on the original work of Alis A. Rasmussen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Before I start thanking anyone I have three pieces of housekeeping to do.
> 
> This first is to address that this is the second story in a trilogy. My recommendation is to read the first part first, before attempting to read this, it was written as a trilogy and this work builds off of Not In Kansas Anymore.
> 
> The second is regarding the tag: Referenced Past Rape/Non-Con. Throughout history, female prisoners in some war camps and concentration camps have been separated and used as rewards for both the people running the camps and other prisoners. Sam and Dean are going to come across this exact occurrence. In the story, the detail of what was happening prior to Sam and Dean arriving is not as blunt as I've written here. This tag does not refer to only one instance, but, a systematic treatment of numerous individuals. I would rather lose readers at this point than have anyone be triggered as they read.
> 
> And lastly, the posting schedule: After today, chapters will post every Monday and Thursday with the exception of the 10th of January, which is hubby's birthday. As such I'm going to post chapter 13 on Wednesday, the 9th of January instead. Part 3 will begin posting on the 4th of March and continue through to the 20th of May.
> 
> * * *
> 
>   
> Again I have so many people to thank for their help on this trilogy.
> 
> Icarusinflight, Baxxie24, Wargurl83, ThatPeculiarOne, Destimushi, Hartless, Kazshero and my hubby. I couldn't have gotten through this without you all.
> 
> Lastly and by no means the least, I need to thank the Lady Fox.  
> You are my rock, my saviour, the light that shines in the darkness guiding me ever onward.  
> I really couldn't do this without you.
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *

Obsessions become dangerous in proportion to the amount of fear they breed in their keepers. The closer the holder is to loss of control, the greater the fear.

Castiel de Angelis, once professionally known as Angel, has three obsessions. The first is his work as a physician, work denied him for nearly twenty five years but which has been restored to him. The second, his lover. The third is the fear someday his past will catch up with him. Not even the past people know him for, the one that made him and his compatriots both heroes and criminals. But his past previous to that. The actions that lead him down his known path.

Of course it will, and of course in the way he most fears.

Angel sits against the wall of his cabin, an arm hooked behind his head. With a concentration that directly recalls his namesake, he watches his lover as he sleeps. Angel’s eyelids hood their intensity, like he fears the full force of his stare might destroy Dean, flesh and soul.

Dean doesn’t stir.

Angel watches him until a series of chimes, the change of watch, ring through the ship and Dean shifts beneath the blanket opening his eyes.

Dean first glances around the room, recalling where he is, but when his eyes find Castiel he relaxes, yawning and stretching. Angel watches him.

“Cas,” Dean asks when he finishes, “what were we doing when we went through the last window?” His voice is slightly hoarse with sleep, lending it an unwitting passionate quality.

Angel smiles.

“That’s what I thought. Damn.” He sits up, the covers slipping off him to reveal the light dusting of freckles on his skin and the medallion—a five point star surrounded by a circle of flames—that Bobby gave him. It hangs now, as it always does, next to the burnished grotesque head Sam gave him years ago. Dean shivers, like the memory of what they had been doing brings him both pleasure and anticipation and he rests his head in his hands, palms covering his eyes. “I could become addicted to that.”

Angel’s eyes haven’t lost their intensity, they glow blue with his emotions. Only when Dean looks up do his eyes dim, changing his expression to something bland.

“Don’t laugh at me,” Dean says, “and don’t even try to kiss me. I need something to drink.” He stands up. “Can you get it for me, please?”

Angel leaves, the door sliding closed behind him. His presence seems to stay with Dean only fading slowly.

“Damn,” Dean repeats with more emphasis as he lays back down. Beside the bunk the intercom buzzes and he reaches up, flipping it on. “You’re through.”

“Dean?” A woman’s voice, tight and controlled. “Get up to the bridge. Fast. _Your_ pilot—”

“I’m coming.” Dean interrupts, dressing and leaving the cabin before Cas returns.

_Painted Lady’s_ corridor is shadowy, evidently Captain Creaser has chosen to spare as much power as possible. Dean jogs to the elevator that accesses the bridge, It has been sent for him, evidently, as the doors are open and waiting. He punches an unlit button with one finger and feels the low hum as it rises through the decks. The door reopens to reveal the glare of the bridge.

“—and I don’t care if your grandmother’s a fucking saint of the Lotus Way, Kubrick, you heard the radio traffic. There’s a general alert in this system and we haven’t got the clearances to get past a close check. So sit down at your damned station.”

Jody Mills stands gripping the shirt of a nondescript man whose chief feature is a grimace of pure hatred directed at the wild tattoos covering the pilot Pinto’s face and bare arms. Jody herself bears a look of disgust tempered by the exasperated glance she casts over her shoulder at Dean’s entrance.

“And I told you,” Kubrick hisses, “I don’t ship with no cursed tattoo.” As he speaks, Dean notices his left eye is beginning to swell, mottling in a deep bruise. Captain Creaser bears both a harassed look and a worried frown at the same time and has a tight but tenuous grip on Pinto’s right arm. “I’ll rot along with the cursed ghost fleet and all the corpses on Newgate ‘fore I’ll touch the same board as that whore’s get—”

Pinto breaks free from Creaser and lunges for Kubrick.

Dean meets Pinto halfway, braces himself and stops Pinto dead in his tracks. He starts to fight against Dean, but realizing it is Dean he freezes into a posture stiff with fury.

“I’ll kill him,” Pinto mutters, but despite the rage in his voice he doesn’t attempt to break past Dean.

Dean looks at Captain Martin Creaser. “Isn’t there someone else who can man that station?”

Martin shakes his head. His eyes examine Dean with a look usually reserved for a once-trusted pet that has brought something truly disgusting in off the streets. “Th’other just went off-shift. Kubrick hadn’t been up before—”

“Cursed right I hadn’t,” Kubrick interrupts. “if you think I’d’ve stayed on this boat knowing you let such filth aboard—”

Pinto jerks forward, caught in Dean’s grasp, but Kubrick responds to the movement by throwing himself gleefully toward Pinto. Only to be dropped hard to the ground by Jody. The mercenary kneels over him, twisting his arm up behind his back until he cries out in pain.

“Captain!” This from Aldo at comm. “Military scan. A cruiser and a cutter entering theta octant.”

Creaser flushes. “Put it through.”

“—request that you identify yourselves. Repeat, this is the _Santa María_. We’re in control of this system. We’re impounding all vessels without Central clearance. Identify yourselves.”

For a long space the only sound on the bridge is the crackle of static as the _Santa María_ waits for a reply, mixed with Kubrick’s gasping breaths as Jody lets up on his arm.

“Fucking idiot,” she mutters, jerking him up to his feet and shoving him into his chair.

Creaser mottles several shades of red as he recovers from the first shock. He takes three swift steps to stand behind the navigator’s chair. “Get us out of here.” His voice shakes.

There’s a second moment of silence as all attention focuses on the nav chair’s occupant. Maned with a glistening crest, the seated Sta shakes her head and hisses inaudible words to herself as her six-fingered hands tap calculations into ship’s computer. She sighs like water flowing downhill.

“The last fix I received from the station here leads into a narrow vector. On our present course, our shift will narrow both our velocity window and our angle. No room for error. None.”

The comm bursts to life again. “This is the _Santa María_. We’re under orders to fire on all hostile vessels. We repeat: Identify yourselves.”

Pinto tugs at Dean’s arm and he releases him. Pinto moves to stand by the nav bank, studying the three-dimensional chart that comes up on the screen.

“I can do it,” he states confidently.

The Sta glances up at him, scale-rimmed eyes blinking once, slowly, before she turns her gaze to Creaser.

Creaser has by this time broken out in a sweat. “I’ll lose my ship,” he whispers.

“I can do it,” Pinto repeats.

“You’re not going to let that whore of a tattoo put his filthy hands on—” Kubrick’s words cut off as Jody tightens her grip on him.

“Shut up.” She looks at Dean. “He got us this far, after all.”

Creaser looks at Dean.

“Trust him.” Dean’s voice is full with confidence that he maybe doesn’t feel, but no one needs to know that.

“Go,” murmurs Creaser, as if speaking softly can negate his responsibility of the command.

“This is the _Santa María_. We will fire if you do not—”

“And turn that fucking noise off,” Creaser shouts, gaining strength of purpose in anger.

The Sta is already entering the coordinates and reading out the numbers.

“I won’t—” Kubrick tries.

“You will,” Jody tells him.

He hesitates, she draws a pistol, laser light red. Kubrick transfers the coordinates through engineering.

For perhaps ten seconds all proceeds in silence. The Sta’s crest raises slightly and she hisses out a long, nervous breath.

“Velocity out of phase,” she speaks, almost singing in fluid nervousness. “I need a correction. Immediately. I need seven-point-seven-eight degrees at three-forty-seven, current vector.”

Pinto slips into the pilot’s chair, twisting the stillstrap around his body. “Call them in.” He adjusts the viewers to his eyes.

“Vector clearance,” from the Sta. “Window at one-point-five, neg three-point-eight, forty-two.”

“That’s tight,” mutters Aldo.

“We’re all dead,” Kubrick curses in an undertone meant to carry across the bridge.

“Homing to six-ought-fifty-seven degrees. Three-twenty-two bits.”

“Shifting vector,” Pinto answers. The minute movements of his hands cannot be seen under the stillstrap.

The Sta reads off her numbers, calculating as the ship shifts placement. “Six-ought-sixty-seven. Six-ought-eight-five. Seven-ought-one. Seven-ought-four. Reverse.” Tension invades her fluid voice. “Cancel seven-ought-seven-point-eight. Add seven-ought-eight-point-one at three-forty-eight bits.”

“Check,” Pinto responds.

Creaser’s hands tremble as he grips the back of the navigator’s chair. Kubrick curses fluently.

“Fuck yourself, Kubrick,” Jody tells him genially. “They say if you vector wrong you end up in Paradise. What’re you worried about? It’s the only way you’ll ever get there.”

“Captain!” Aldo gasps. “Cruiser is banking to fire.”

“Seven-ought-six. Seven-ought-seven-point-eight. Three-forty-six bits. Three-forty-seven. Three-forty-seven.”

“I’ve got surges,” Aldo calls. “They’ve fired. We’ll never make it.”

“Three-forty-seven. Closing imperative. Seven-ought-eight-point-one. Three-forty-eight. Break.”

“We will,” Dean breaths.

They go through

> _Behind, the hunter trails him by scent, inexorable, nearing. However far he flees, however faint his trail grows, it will pursue, until at last he turns to see its face._

And come out.

“Perfect,” the Sta hisses.

Dean turns. The lift doors open to reveal Castiel. He stares directly at Dean, like he’s been watching him even through the metal door. Dean mentally shakes off the vision, but as it fades he remembers their last trip on the _Painted Lady_ , when Castiel had moved across a cabin inside a window.

An impossible act and with time had Dean convinced himself he’d imagined it. Except, surely Castiel had been in the mess, or in their cabin? Can he possibly move so far in a space that lasts less than an instant for everyone else? What if Castiel had reached him before they’d come out of the window?

He doesn’t move out of the lift.

“I have Woodside beacon,” Aldo says at comm. “Holy Void. That’s the tightest vector I’ve ever shipped. We skipped Spalding system completely.” He turns disbelieving eyes on the Sta navigator. “Did you know this window would take us this far?”

The Sta merely unfurls her crest, glittering bronze in the glare of the lights. “Yes,” she answers sibilant. “I saw the Ridani’s touch on the first vector we rode through. It was our only chance, but I believed.” She stands, uncurling her great height and flattens her crest as she faces Pinto. “You are a master.” The gesture embodies formal respect.

Pinto unstraps and lays a delicate hand on the softly humming board. “Thank you Esstana,” he murmurs.

Kubrick throws himself out of his chair and shoulders past Castiel, who in turn is forced to step out onto the bridge as Kubrick commandeers the elevator and vanishes from sight.

Captain Creaser sits down in the vacant chair. He’s gone pale again and his hands are slick with perspiration. “I’ve never had to run before,” he whispers. “Not like that. Circumspection is all one needs.” He swivels to glare at Jody. “I want you all off my ship. I said no troublemaking on this boat and I meant it. No attracting attention. All of you off.”

Dean glances at Jody, but the mercenary has fallen silent, as if by not speaking she can keep her anger in check. “This system’s no more than a beacon,” Dean counters, meeting Creaser’s gaze. “With a rotating crew. They won’t have life support for so many.”

Creaser drops his eyes to examine the boards. Pinto’s smiling a look of mocking cynicism. The Sta sighs and sits back down at her station, beginning calculations anew.

“Name your system,” Creaser utters in a low voice. “You deserve that much for getting us out of Arcadia system. But all of you have to go. I won’t have trouble on the _Painted Lady_.”

“All right,” Dean agrees. Creaser lets out a held breath, like Dean’s acceptance comes as a surprise to him. Dean names a system, “Hexham.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We want to go to Hexham.”

He turns several new shades of pale. “Void! That planet is a prison.”

“I know.”

“There’s several fine Stations where a fugitive can find employment, safety, money—”

“Hexham,” Dean repeats.

Creaser sighs but doesn’t protest further. “Very well. Hexham it is.” He motions to the Sta. “Start running a route. As short as possible.”

The Sta’s fingers race over the keypad, setting a course.

  


.oOo.

  


“Hexham? Have you lost your mind Dean?” Jody sits on the bunk in Dean’s cabin, where they have retreated from Creaser’s resentment and anger.

“I’m sorry.” Dean stands by the door, his attention on Jody but his eyes rest on Castiel, who is reclining on the bed behind Jody. Above, on the top bunk, Sam sits with Baby drifting a finger’s breadth above the mattress. “I’m sorry,” Dean repeats. “I never meant to get you, Alex and Owen thrown off.”

“Martin’s a coward. I’m amazed he let a tattoo pilot the _Painted Lady_ , but we were in a rush to get out of Central,” Jody shrugs, “and no one on first shift had Kubrick’s idiotic objections, so he used what he had. Now the shock’s worn off, he’ll take it out on whoever’s easiest to blame.

“When our last pilot tried flying on ambergloss and almost ran us into the next life, he tossed off our second engineer with her since they were bunkmates. Martin’s always looked for someone else to blame for his own nerves. We’ll be all right.”

“Come with us,” Dean offers.

“To Hexham? Into the hands of Central’s troops, who’ll gladly arrest us, lock Owen and I away in the mines, and send Alex back to her family? I think not.”

_Baby,_ Dean whistles. Baby, lights flashing drifts down to hover beside Dean. _Plug into the screen._

Jody raises her eyebrows but says nothing.

Baby softly sings a four part counterpoint. Figures come up on screen and shift to new figures as she pages through her memory.

“Master Smith’s dead, Jody.” Dean’s voice is flat, suppressing his grief. “Murdered by Central. That’s why we’re going to join Jehane.”

“Jehane! I never took you for revolutionaries.”

Dean hesitates and Sam speaks for them both. “I’m not sure we are. But Central’ll pay, Jody. They’re the ones who murdered Bobby. Our friend Dorothy, you might know her as Athena? She made us understand that Central’s corrupt. They won’t give up their power voluntarily. We think Jehane’s revolution’s the best chance, maybe the only one that Riven space has for a fair government.”

Angel regards Dean with no obvious expression.

“I can accept that.” Jody runs her hand through her short hair. “But why Hexham?”

“Because according to Bobby, or the information that he gave Dorothy,” Dean takes over, “Jehane’s moving on Hexham. Sam and I think that when we reach there, Jehane’s troops’ll be in control.”

“Why would Jehane want Hexham? One blazing inferno of a moon orbiting a methane hell of a planet, producing ore, fuel and data crystals with what amounts to slave labor, working under killing conditions. That’s what you hear over the nets.”

“What do you think he wants?” Sam is not asking. “He wants those prisoners. They’ve every reason to hate Central. They’ll join Jehane without a second glance.”

“Fine army,” Jody mutters. “Remind me not to turn my back on any of them.”

“Does that mean you’ll come with us?”

Jody laughs. “I’m no revolutionary. But why do you want me? Alex and Owen are more burden than asset, much as I love them.”

“There must be something Alex can do.”

Jody considers this seriously. “She can cook.”

“There you are. Two reasons, Jody. First, we’ve a debt to pay. A girl got indentured to Hexham because of us. I intend to find her. And second, we’ll join Jehane. You know I met him once. It’s not so much that I didn’t trust him, but that he—scared me.”

“ _Scared_ you?”

Dean shakes his head. “I’m not sure what I mean. Maybe I don’t trust my own reactions around him. He’s very powerful. In any case, when we join him, Sam and I want negotiating power to set our own assignment. The more people we have with us who’ve skills he can use, the more leverage we’ll have. You’re a mercenary—and trained as an Immortal, no less. Pinto’s a pilot, one of the best, tattoo or not. Castiel’s a doctor. Alex can cook. And Baby—”

Baby sings three notes and a three-dimensional star grid, interlocked by a complex interweaving of lines, comes up on the screen.

“This is the most recent information out of Central’s military intelligence computers. Jehane’s movements. Interpreted by Bobby and Baby. They suggest he’s moving to take Hexham. I’ve barely scratched the surface of what Baby’s accessed from Central’s computer-net. I have Baby, Jody. Therefore, Jehane wants us. That’s what we’ll negotiate with.”

Angel’s eyes haven’t wavered from Dean’s face. His lips arch into the barest of smiles.

Jody grins and stands up. She examines Castiel a moment, taking in the studied nonchalance of his posture that reveals instead the complete focus of his attention. Dean waits, expectant but not tense with it—in control rather, like the precise situation of his body illuminates the relationship between the four people and one ‘bot in the room.

“Dean Winchester.” Jody shakes her head. “You’ve changed.”

“It’s Smith now. Dean Smith.”

“That must be it.” Jody gives him a mock salute. “I’ll go pack our bags.”

As the door closes behind the mercenary, Baby sings

  
_Discovery is to be disowned_  
_Our currency is flesh and bone_  
_Hell opened up and put on sale_  
_Gather 'round and haggle_  
_For hard cash, we will lie and deceive_  
_Even our masters don't know the web we weave_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dogs of War** by _Pink Floyd._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The _Painted Lady_ arrives in Hexham system.  
> Dean finds an old friend.
> 
> * * *

They swing into orbit far from the regular traffic routes into Hexham Station. An eerie silence deadens the usual communications channels. What scraps of talk the _Painted Lady_ catches on comm bear the stamp of patchwork equipment and illicit brief messages planetside leaking out through Hexham’s killing atmosphere. Other vessels litter the in-system lanes, but whether they’re silent by choice or through destruction, it’s impossible to tell, their orbits being far too distant for visual scanning.

The _Painted Lady_ drifts at low power for an entire revolution of the planet, a ghost on the fringe of Station’s net, listening. At last Creaser gathers up his courage, egged on by his rapidly deteriorating nerves and decides to give Sam and Dean a shuttle to get their people down to the surface.

It’s a quiet group that boards the small shuttle. Jody enters first, in full rig, weapons strapped about her and a pack on her back containing everything she possesses. She holds the small hand of her son, Owen, who carries a small replica of her pack. Behind them follows the slight figure of Alex, Jody’s adopted daughter and fellow fugitive. Her dark hair frames her face and she wears clothing a little too rich for the _Painted Lady’s_ faded hull, carrying a finely brocaded bag, a relic of her wealthy past.

Pinto’s already at the controls of the shuttle, speaking in a low voice to the bridge several decks away. The geometric pattern of tattoos covering his face shift in color as the lock light blinks on and off with each entry. He turns at the sound of Alex’s soft voice and his eyes catch hers, both smiling.

After Alex, Castiel enters, then Baby and last, sealing the hatch behind them, Sam and Dean. Dean walks forward and sits beside Pinto, flipping on the comm-station as the engines rumble to life beneath them.

“Jody,” he asks over his shoulder, “what’s the broadband link?”

“Two interlinked circles—”

“I see, and the focused beam is the arrow? And I can patch to incoming with the—yes, I see.”

“What’s going to happen to the shuttle once we’re down?” Alex asks.

Jody shrugs. “Martin’s cutting his losses and running as soon as we detach.”

“But,” Alex’s voice tells the tale of her uncertainty, “what if the planet’s abandoned?”

“We know it’s not,” Dean tells her. “Station is down, so we don’t know what’s happening there, but there’s some radio traffic so we know Hexham’s not abandoned.”

This silences Alex. Castiel finishes stowing their packs and containers and, after double checking Baby’s restraints, belts himself in beside her at the back of the shuttle.

“Detach sequence.” Pinto’s voice is cool but his hands tremble slightly at the controls.

The shuttle rolls, yawing to one side and they hit free weight for the drift away from the _Painted Lady_. Its colorless bulk recedes in the single viewport and Pinto brings the engines to thrust, pointing the ship into its descent.

The ride through the upper atmosphere is rough. Dean monitors radio traffic, but keeps the broadcast quiet. Abruptly they hit calm like a sheet of stillness and bank into a smoother descent. Pinto keeps up a quiet murmur of altitude checks and Dean attempts to get a fix on Hexham Main Block, the center of Hexham’s tight mesh of surveillance and prison administration.

Through whirring noises of the shuttle’s venting fans and the static on the radio voices filter, scraps of communications passing along the planet’s surface.

“—sealed tunnel thirty-six from further incursions, but left five cells without—”

“—regroup to point Alpha. Their resistance may prove too difficult to—”

“We have complete control of Portmaster’s functions. I repeat. Portmaster is now under Jehanist control. Supply and transport ships may now commence landing sequence. Acknowledge.”

In the back of Dean’s mind nags some itch, something forgotten but familiar.

“Accepted. This is Trenton on the _Endeavour_. We’ll be sending an initial track of two supply boats and three transports to land at point-two rev intervals. Acknowledge.”

“Accepted. Block is not equipped to deal with landings at higher than point-four frequency. Acknowledge.”

“Accepted. Will alter the schedule. First boat in close orbit. Will enter Block instrument range in point-three. Acknowledge.”

“Accepted. And out.”

“Benny.” Dean freezes with astonishment, static crackling from the speaker at his fingertips, as the voice of the Main Block’s comm falls into place in his memory. “Benny!”

Pinto glances at him curiously but returns his attention to the controls.

“Who’s Benny?” Jody asks, alert to the tone in Dean’s voice.

“How the Void did he get here?” Sam asks but Dean can tell he’s not expecting an answer.

In the back of the shuttle, Castiel has been resting, eyes closed and relaxed, but now his posture changes abruptly. He sits up, not stiff, but poised on some brink, and opens his eyes to examine with tight intensity Dean’s profile as he reaches for a new control on his banks. He opens his station for broadcast.

“Dean, are you sure—” Jody questions.

“Main Block. Main Block, acknowledge.”

“This is Main Block. Identify yourself. All unidentified ships will be considered hostile. We’re under Jehanish authority. Acknowledge.”

“Benny.”

“Who is—Dean!”

“How did you—”

“How did you—”

There’s a slight delay as their signals bounce and return off each other and a second as they each wait for the other to speak. At last Dean does. “Where can we land?”

A pause. “Field Blue. There’ll be tight security measures. Troops. But I’ll meet you, Dean. I’ll leave now. And out.”

A different voice guides Pinto to the flat plain where a series of low domes rise like slowly emerging boils from the ground. He lands the shuttle smoothly on a strip lined with blue lights and taxis to the nearby blue-lit dome. Around them, the air is free of wind but is permeated by a constant downward sifting of some heavy white element, drifting constantly to meld into the sandy surface of the planet. The shuttle’s wheels barely stir this dust, but its falling makes a soft drumming noise on the metal above them.

The sound of the lock change rings through the hull and as Pinto rolls back the layer of protective sheeting they can see the huge cargo dome they’ve entered.

The harsh gleam of fluorescent tubing casts unpleasant shadows on the cluster of white uniformed troops that have assembled by the loading dock. All of them have guns out.

Pinto coasts into the berth and turns to Dean. “Should I open the hatch?”

“Yes.” He unstraps himself. “I’ll go out first. Find Benny and explain.”

“Who’re they?” Alex asks Dean as he passes.

“Jehane’s people. Baby, see if you can get any fix from communications on where Jehane himself might be. But do it surreptitiously. Sam, I want you to stay here.”

Baby whistles her assent. Alex settles back into her chair, looking more thoughtful than apprehensive.

As he waits at the lock, Castiel rises decisively to stand directly behind Dean. Jody, alert as any trained mercenary must be, releases her harness quickly and follows him out the lock, loosening a strap on one of her guns as she goes.

Dean waits to descend the ramp as it slowly lowers. With a sense almost of disorientation, Dean sees Benny standing, out alone in front of Jehane’s troops, in what might’ve been the same posture that Dean had last seen him in, watching as they left Kansas.

The ramp rings on metal as it hits the floor of the hold. Dean and Benny start forward at the same time. Benny has a slight grin on his face, bemusement mixed with real happiness, tempered with some sorrow.

“Dean!” Benny puts out his hands as he nears him. Without thinking Dean stretches his out as well, so close almost touching—

He doesn’t reach him.

The attack takes Dean so completely by surprise, with half his attention on Benny and the other half, wary by experience, on the white uniformed soldiers, that Angel is already on top of Benny, choking him with the kind of quiet conviction that’s most dangerous. Before Dean even registers the movement, Castiel has broken past him and thrown himself on his old friend.

For an instant, the only sounds are Benny’s struggling, growing weaker. Angel isn’t saying a word.

The soldiers have frozen in much the same disbelief as Dean has. Angel’s hands, long fingered and very pale, fit neatly about the darkening turn of Benny’s neck.

Dean throws himself forward. He senses more than sees in his peripheral vision Jody stepping to one side. There’s a hissing bolt as she shoots.

Angel shudders, stiffens and falls on top of Benny.

The soldiers break forward in a wave.

Eyes wide with panic, Benny throws Castiel’s body off him and scrambles gasping away to one side. As Dean rushes to him, Benny leaps to his feet and jerks away from him, leaving Dean caught between the two men.

He stops and turns abruptly to kneel by Castiel. White uniforms surround them, guns pointing not quite on them. Jody’s shoving through the crowd to stand with arms raised high, away from her weapons, beside Dean’s kneeling form.

“Just remember,” she tells them, “I’m the one who shot him. Just on stun, Dean.”

Dean puts his hand on Castiel’s neck and feels his pulse, then stands slowly, hearing the question implicit in Jody’s tone. A few of the soldiers have lowered their guns, relaxing. Dean quickly picks out the officer.

“Let me speak with you and Benny,” he says.

The officer doesn’t take his eyes off of Castiel’s prostrate form. “He’ll have to go in custody. What is he? A maniac?”

Behind, Dean can hear Benny’s gasping chokes as he fights to regain his breath. “I don’t know,” he replies, cold with a memory of Castiel breaking a chair that no one of human strength should’ve been able to break. “But I ask that you leave Jody,” he nods towards his companion, “with him.”

“Agreed. Who else do you have in the shuttle?”

“Four more people and a ’bot. We’re here to join Jehane.”

“Right.” The officer examines him skeptically and motions to his soldiers. “Kelvin’s ten take control of the ship—full custody of the vessel, contents and crew until I personally give other orders. Drexel, your ten to escort these two to a holding cell. Strict security. You four accompany me and the rest—stay with Kelvin.” With his pistol, he waves Dean forward. “We’ll go to the command center, you, me and Comrade Lafitte.”

Dean turns to see Benny’s looking at him with mournful accusation, rubbing his throat with his left hand.

“You’ll understand I’m taking an escort with us,” the officer adds.

“Yes,” Dean says. “I understand.” He studies Castiel, glancing at Jody, at the shuttle and then follows the officer. Benny, walking alongside, keeps two soldiers between them the entire way to the command center.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's talk about Benny for a moment.
> 
> * * *

Comrade Officer Victor Henriksen is of a similar height to Dean, maybe a couple of centimeters shorter. His arms have old, finger-length scars Dean recognizes as the legacy of cable stripping on asteroid mines. Against his dark coloring, the lines show doubly strong. Victor leaves his pistol outside the small room behind comm-central after Dean has been thoroughly searched. His face has an unexpectedly lean cast as he shrewdly studies Dean after they all settle into the chairs that have been placed in the empty room.

Benny sits beside Victor opposite Dean. Dean slumps back in his hard chair, sighing. Victor pointedly says nothing. Through the closed door, Dean can hear the desultory conversation of their four escorts. Further, a low hum of machinery repetitively shutting on and off.

“Who is that man?” Benny stands up, like he’s startled by his own outburst. He glares at Dean. “Who is he?”

Dean also stands, putting out his hands. “Benny.”

“Stay away from me.” Benny retreats behind Victor, who hasn’t shifted except to keep his gaze level on Dean’s face.

“I didn’t know he’d attack,” Dean says. “I swear to you, Benny. I didn’t know. It took me by surprise too. Shit. Do you think I’d’ve let him out of the shuttle if I’d known?”

Benny shakes his head, but Dean doesn’t know if it is in agreement, or denial. “Then who is he? Why’d he try to kill me?”

Dean sits back down, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I don’t know who he is.” Removing his hand to look at Victor, who regards him without expression. “That’s not what I mean. I know who he is. Void help me, Benny, I dunno why he did it.”

He stops, two realizations fighting for his attention as his eyes drift to the wall. “Shit,” he says in an undertone. “It can’t be. But he said—” Abruptly Dean sits up straight and looks first at Benny then at Victor.

Benny watches him warily, but with hope. Victor examines him with the intent gaze of a well-trained and acute observer. Dean keeps his expression passive as he considers Castiel’s behavior. He knows he’s never mentioned Benny by name to Cas and yet Dean knows that Castiel tried to murder Benny because Benny was once Dean’s lover.

Victor still doesn’t speak.

“All right,” Dean says decisively, returning his attention to Benny. “He’s my lover, Benny. I never realized how jealous he is. It won’t happen again.” I hope, he thinks.

Benny goes pale. “ _He’s_ your lover. Merde, Dean. It’s easy for you to say it won’t happen again.” Benny lifts his hand to his throat again. “Where have you been all this time?”

“Yes, Comrade,” Victor asks quietly. “Where _have_ you been? And why do you want to join Jehane?”

Dean smiles, shifting his hands to his lap to give himself a less threatening posture. “I haven’t made a very good first impression, have I?” he asks. The barest smile touches the line of Victor’s lips. As Dean expects, he doesn’t reply. He returns to Benny. “But I don’t understand why _you’re_ here, Benny. When we left Kansas…” he trails off.

“Blame Central for that.” Benny’s expression twists to one of hatred. The Benny he’d known, easy going almost beyond belief, seems lost in that face, like a stranger now stands before Dean. “They arrested us for helping the booters. Came down hard all across Kansas. I don’t know why. Dad they let go, since he never was in on any of our systems. But Mama and Grand-mère, Elizabeth and I, they shipped here. Without a hearing, with nothing! And Grand-mère was sick.” His voice cracks. “She’s dead, Dean. They stuck her in the twenties dig with a bunch of filthy tattoos. They knew the dig was unsafe, unstable, but they had a rich lode in the twenty eight tunnel, so they sent tattoos and anyone else they considered worthless down there.” He pauses, sucking in a ragged breath. “They hit a pocket of explosive gas and it blew. The whole twenties dig had to be shut down. Almost three hundred people were killed.”

“As well as some two thousand Ridanis, I believe,” Victor adds like it’s an afterthought.

Benny shrugs. “If you count tattoos, I guess. But Grand-mère’s still down there. They never even got the bodies out.” His lips twist in bitter anger. “They didn’t want to risk any of their personnel down there. They coulda least sent some tattoos to check the—”

Victor lifts a hand, a deceptively casual gesture that cuts Benny off. “Comrade, I understand your grief. But it’s not you who’re being questioned.”

“We know each other,” Dean says quietly. “We grew up together. What about Elizabeth and your mother?”

He glances at Victor and sits down with a sigh. “Mama’s in hospital. She got shot in the first fighting, but she’ll live. Elizabeth’s still out in the thirties dig. The last of the old guard sealed it off, so now they’re waiting it out, hoping to hold off until reinforcements come. But I don’t think any messages got out, so it’s just a matter of time.” He grimaces. “All we know is that casualties in the thirties, prisoners and guards alike, have been high. They destroyed the access trains and tubes, right outside the peripheral living blocks. No one knows who’s left.”

Victor frowns. “I think that’s enough, Comrade Lafitte.” He reaches into his jacket, removes Dean’s comm-screen from a pocket and inserts it into a viewer on the stand to his right. “Dean Smith. That _is_ your name?”

Because he’s looking at Dean, he misses Benny’s reaction. A slight start, subsiding quickly into a neutral mask.

Dean, seeing this, merely shrugs. “Yes.”

“You’re registered here as an instructor at the Abagail Street Academy on Arcadia. Is that also correct?”

“I did work there, but I resigned. I worked for Athena the last months I spent on Arcadia. She’s why we had to leave. Martial law was declared by Central and they executed a man they claimed was Athena but who wasn’t. Athena’s still alive. This news I _know_ isn’t yet known to Jehane, because only a military cruiser traveling the direct route here could’ve gotten here before us.” And they wouldn’t have had Pinto piloting, he adds to himself.

“I’ve heard of Athena,” Victor says slowly. “Comrade Jehane broadcasts their speeches to the troops.” He frowns. The white scars on his arms are mirrored by a few on his cheeks and at the corners of his eyes, like wrinkles. “Where’s your ship?”

“Not _our_ ship. We just got passage off Arcadia ‘cause they needed a pilot badly. They’re a booter and they dumped us here. Gave up a shuttle. We’ve nowhere to go now, whatever happens.” He shrugs, like he’s not concerned about their current situation.

“We.”

“Six adults, one child, one ’bot. My people have skills and information that’ll be quite valuable to Jehane. I assure you.”

“Your people.” Victor’s emphasis is careful.

Dean pauses, thinking back over what’s brought them here. “Yes,” he answers slowly, considering. “They’re mine. I’m responsible for them being here now.”

“And why _here_ , Comrade Smith? Why Hexham?”

The tone of his voice alerts Dean and he chooses his next words carefully. “Two reasons. I’ve unfinished business on Hexham. A friend who was unlawfully imprisoned here. Not you, Benny, because I didn’t know. I didn’t know, but if I had—” He shakes his head, meets Benny’s eyes fiercely and has the satisfaction of seeing Benny’s face clear, trusting Dean again, like the episode with Castiel had almost never happened. “I came here to free her.”

“And the other reason?” Victor is still punching buttons on the terminal, scrolling through whatever information remains on his comm-screen. He knows how little is there, fed in by Master Smith as a screen to his real identity, and Dean’s.

“Because I knew Jehane would be here.”

“You _knew_?” For the first time, Victor’s careful layer of disinterest cracks, to reveal astonishment. “You can’t have known. We didn’t even know until we got here—” He breaks off.

“You’d be surprised at what I know,” Dean states then laughs at the absurdity of his comment. “No. What I mean to say, Comrade, is that I’ve a great deal more information that Jehane will like to have. Needs to have. But that information goes to him alone. Not through anyone else. My price for recruitment. Do you understand?”

“I understand that you’re pretty damned sure of yourself.” He shakes his head. “You can’t meet with Jehane. Impossible. In hostile territory only his personal lieutenants have access to him. But it may be possible for you to speak with my superior officer.” He stands up and goes to the door, speaking into a band on his wrist in a low voice so Dean can’t hear.

“Dean.” Benny leaves his chair to kneel beside him, putting his hand in Dean’s where they rest in his lap. Reassuring, needing reassurance. “What happened to Master Smith?”

He shuts his eyes and turns his face away, feels his throat constrict. Still fueled by anger he finds it possible to speak. “He’s dead. He’s the one Central murdered, calling him Athena. Why do you think I’m joining Jehane? For revenge.”

Benny’s hand tightens in his and Dean knows at that moment that he shares his sentiments completely.

“Who’s Master Smith?”

Dean releases Benny’s hand. His eyes jump to Victor, who still stands by the door but now watches him intently.

“My father,” he answers bitterly.

This time, having both Dean and Benny equally in his sight, Victor sees Benny’s expression of surprise before Benny can disguise it. For a moment he merely examines the two. Benny stands up, twisting his hands nervously in front of himself. Dean stares back impassively. Victor turns and leaves the room, sealing the door shut behind him.

Dean stands up and paces out the dimensions of the room while Benny turns, stationary, to follow his progress around the four blank, encircling walls.

“What do you mean, ‘your father’?”

“Benny.” His pace doesn’t slacken. “They’re probably listening in.”

He continues to stare as Dean walks. “You’re different, you’ve changed.”

Now Dean stops. “You’re the second person who’s said that to me. Here.” He shoves a chair against the wall. “Let’s do kata. Do you remember the first pattern?”

“Kata? Are you crazy? Merde, no wonder you’ve taken up with a psychopathic murderer as your—”

“Benny. I don’t know how long we’re going to be stuck in here, but I don’t intend to give them the pleasure of watching me get progressively more nervous. Kata.”

He laughs. “Have you spent a lot of time in holding cells, or prisons, lately?”

“Yes,” he replies, smiling with sweet irony. “I have. This one’s about the same size as the others.”

Behind him, the door opens. He whirls and drops into a fighting stance.

Victor entering stops and regards him thoughtfully as he straightens up. “Let’s hope you really are on our side.” He motions him outside. He holds his pistol in his left hand and the four white uniformed soldiers stand at careful intervals in the corridor outside. “We’re to take you to Records. If you can find your friend we’ll do whatever possible to reunite you with her.” He pauses.

“And then?” Dean prompts.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, like an actor waiting for silence in which to deliver his line. “And then we arrange an audience for you with Comrade Jehane.”

Dean lets out his breath, more relieved than he realizes. “That’s easy,” he says, more to himself than to Victor.

“Yes, it is,” he replies drily. “You seem to interest him. He seems to think he’s met you before. Under another name.”

In the corridor, the four soldiers shift, growing restless, and one hisses some complaint to his companion. Dean feels a shiver run up his back, recalling Jehane. A man who appears mild but hides behind that facade some secret, some intense power, driving his ambition. Dean isn’t sure he cares to discover what it is.

“He has a good memory,” he murmurs as he follows Victor out. Benny, still looking confused, trails behind them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes a plan.
> 
> * * *

It doesn’t take Dean long to find Paisley’s record of arrest and indenture on Hexham, or her assigned berth: EntOps; tunnel 37; Op sector 30-39.

“She’s in the 30s,” Dean tells them.

Benny, sitting behind him, gives the screen a cursory glance. “She must have a good status record, then. The thirties are the best, the cleanest and safest-run digs on Hexham. That’s why the old guard retreated there. Elizabeth’s on communications in the thirties surface comm-central, tagging incoming ore boats, same job I have—had here at Main Block. Or at least, she did.”

“Good status record.” Dean scrolls to the next page of Paisley’s entry, but the incarceration charges are listed as ‘priority’ and not accessible to him at this console. “Right. What does ‘EntOps’ mean?”

Victor answers. “Their division’s entertainment. Your friend’s lucky. In general, the ‘EntOps’ people get the best treatment. They’re the leisure-time folks. The workers have to buy entrance to entertainment with good conduct and performance.”

“What does entertainment consist of?”

“Vids. News. Singers, live theatre and panto. Sports. Lectures and classes. At least that’s how it works out on the mining stations.”

“You were incarcerated?”

He shakes his head. “House miner. In Wellington system. Twenty years.”

“How’d you end up with Jehane?”

Victor regards Dean quizzically. “Like everyone else. I saw him speak. He’s persuasive and he’s right about Central.”

“Ah,” Dean says, turning back to load the information on Paisley to his comm-screen, which Victor has returned to him. “So the access tubes to the thirties’ tunnels were blown, completely sealing them off?”

A nod from Victor, echoed unconsciously by Benny.

“Well, I owe her and I mean to get her out, if she’s still alive. Are you planning an attack?”

“Classified, Comrade. You should know better than that.”

“Then let me take four of my people and I’ll go in and get her.”

Victor laughs. “You’re a cool one. Which four? Let me guess, the mercenary and the psychotic are two, who’re the others?”

“My brother, you haven’t met him yet or you’d have more confidence, and my ‘bot”

“Dean!” Benny speaks as the screen flicks to black, erasing Paisley’s file. “You can’t go in. It’ll be suicide.”

“How many guards and how many prisoners?” Dean asks Victor.

He lays a dark hand on the records console, brushing his fingers along the smooth, pale surface as he calculates. His eyes narrow. “Come on,” he says abruptly. “I’m going to take you to see Abner.”

  


.oOo.

  


“Here’s what we’re dealing with.” Comrade Officer Abner bends over a table whose lights and illumination lines mark out in three dimensions a map of the complex on Hexham. Mines, tunnels and living blocks. “We’ve Main Block virtually at center, with numbered section blocks radiating out as spokes, but also linked underground on levels one, two and three by access tube.”

“Do these tubes include ore trains?” Dean asks, examining the grid with the eye of one experienced in mining operations.

“Yes.” Abner looks up and beckons to a slim woman covered with the profusion of tattoos that mark a Ridani out from other humans. She’s dressed in a poorly fitting white uniform. “Comrade Rainbow’s a guard here and she can explain the workings better than I can.”

“Do you know ya mining, min Smith?” Rainbow asks in a hesitant voice.

Dean smiles slightly at the Ridani honorific. Beside him Benny makes a gesture of derision, but Dean ignores it. “Yes. I do.” He points to a spoke illuminated in dull red. “This is the section that failed?”

Rainbow moves forward to stand beside Dean. She nods. “Ya twenties dig. It be abandoned now. It were ya terrible, such destruction.”

“You were here?” Dean eyes her, a woman of middle years whose slightness belies the gleam of strength in her eyes. “I didn’t know Central commissions Ridani soldiers.”

“Only for ya work with ya Ridani prisoners. I were stationed in ya twenties surface dome, to search ya new Ridani prisoners as come in. Here. I watched as they pulled out all ya guards and ya govinment troops, and left ya prisoners to die. That be ya time I became ya Jehanist.”

In the brief silence following this quiet remark, Dean studies the green lit outline of the thirties dig, reaching far into the depths of the planet. Red blinking lights show the areas where the retreating guards have blown the access tubes to cut themselves off from Jehane’s attack.

“So the only access to the thirties is the surface dome,” Dean comments at last.

Abner makes a negative gesture. “With this atmosphere, we can’t equip our people for a ground assault, and an air assault would be decimated by the dome’s stationary cannons. We can’t blast through the tubes without alerting everyone and probably destabilizing the zone and the artificial atmosphere.”

“No,” Dean agrees. “But you clearly have any number of shafts in the twenties dig,” he uses a pointer of white light to identify several shafts from the deep levels in the twenties tunnels that reach into and almost overlap with equivalent shafts from the deep thirties, “that a small group can use to pierce through into shafts in the thirties. Take them from behind.”

There’s another brief silence.

“But the twenties dig is unstable,” Abner protests at last.

Dean shakes his head. “Look at these figures for stress placement and tunnel maintenance. They can’t’ve gone down eight—no, nine levels with that structure if the rock’s unstable. Benny mentioned something about explosive gas. I’m betting it’s an isolated pocket, or series of pockets. That’d ruin half the operations, even poison the atmosphere. There must be more detailed data recording the relative strength of the different veins. In any case, if instability was known to be present, they must have easer drills that can push through with a minimum of vibration. Shit, those’re standard in the House mines.”

By the door into the cavernous operations room, Victor laughs. He’s lounging at his ease, eight white clad soldiers standing at intervals around the room. “House miner,” he says. “Wouldn’t you know.”

Dean turns with a grin. “Yes and I hated every minute of it. Funny that it’s serving me well now. Didn’t you say you were, too?”

“Both my cousin Kelvin and me. Henriksen House.”

“Ah,” Dean says mindful of his supposed identity and he turns back to face Abner. “Comrade Henriksen said you’re in charge of the force barricading the thirties dig?” Abner nods. “Then I volunteer myself to break in. I think you know my goal.”

“To liberate a friend. Yes. I also know that Comrade Jehane’s interested in you, Smith. Such interest’s unprecedented.” Abner pauses to consider.

“You know, Abner,” Victor speaks, “we’re under time constraints.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Abner replies without looking up. “Just as I’m aware we outgun what guards are left in the thirties dig if only we can get past their topside guns.”

“I think it could be done,” Rainbow says, “getting through by ya shafts into ya thirties.” Her uninvited comment seems brash, coming from a Ridani, despite her mild voice and the supposed emancipatory purpose of Jehane’s revolution. “Ya main drill engineer were ya indentured Kansan and he be in ya hospital.” She swivels to meet Dean’s eyes. “Can you handle ya easer drill?”

“I’ve done it. Not with any precision though.”

“Hold on.” Abner slaps the table’s buttons so that all the lights vanish except for the red and green 20s and 30s. “Are you proposing to go on this expedition alone?”

“No. I’ll take three of my companions, all are trained fighters, and a ’bot. This’ll be a quick strike.”

“And take what information you’ve gained from us to the troops holding out in the thirties? I think not.”

“I’ll go,” says Victor. “I’m familiar with mines and I’ll ask for volunteers.”

“I volunteer,” Rainbow says quietly.

“Dean—” Benny starts to object.

“Benny, remember, Elizabeth’s there somewhere.”

He frowns and looks down.

“I wouldn’t suggest,” Victor directs to Abner, “that you let the man who assaulted Comrade Lafitte go.”

“I need him.” Dean interrupts. “You’ve no idea how much I need him in an operation of this kind. It won’t happen again.” The large room, illuminated by a vague ceiling glow, dwarfs his figure, but even in such space, sterile and contained, his resolve shows clearly in the lines of his body. “You must let me speak to him. I doubt any of your people can reason with him.”

“And you can?” Victor’s voice is softly mocking, but he raises his dark eyes to Abner, questioning.

“Time constrains us, Comrade,” Abner answers Victor’s unspoken question. “Jehane’s already preparing to evacuate the planet and system. He means to leave behind the prisoners in the thirties if he has to.”

“That’s five thousand people,” Benny objects. “You can’t abandon them.”

“Ten thousand,” Victor murmurs.

“I hardly think,” Abner replies drily, “the government will kill them for the unfortunate accident of having been left behind. They’ll need their work force after all, and these mines are valuable to them and justifiably unpopular with free workers. In any case, if a small force at little risk to us can break through then it’ll be to our credit. If it fails,” Abner’s shrug is eloquent, “we’ve lost a few noble Comrades. Martyrs to the cause of freedom, and this man and his associates who’re of doubtful loyalty in any case.

“Therefore, I’m mindful to let Comrade Smith have his way. After all, how many of the prisoners we’ve liberated are convicted murderers? At least his companion didn’t succeed,” a glance here for Benny, who winces, “and was stopped, need I add, by another one of his people. Have you already formulated a plan, Smith?”

“Is this right?” Dean looks at Rainbow. “There’s one central elevator shaft that runs to just beneath the main control center in the surface dome and four auxiliary shafts in each of the four spokes? The power plant’s here, beside the control center.”

“Sure,” Rainbow agrees mystified.

Dean turns to Abner. “When the main power goes the first time, bring your assault unit in close to the dome. When it goes the second time—”

“Hold on.” Abner touches the tabletop, tracing a thin thread out from the 30s dig. “They’ve cut all links, we can’t control their power plant from Main Block anymore.”

“That’s good,” Dean says. “That’ll confuse them even more. When the power goes the second time, you assault the dome.”

“Perhaps you’ll explain,” Abner asks facetiously, “where you’ll be at that point.”

Dean points to the circle that marks the 30s main control center in the surface dome. “Here.”

Abner chuckles. “I see. You don’t lack nerve, I’ll give you that. Very well. I’ll give you one rev. Comrade Henriksen. A strike force and attendant troop ships will wait that long, in case you can break through to the surface. Otherwise we’ll leave you.”

Dean smiles. “Generous in its own way.”

“Quite generous.” Abner doesn’t return the smile.

“But Dean—” Benny sounds distressed.

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Benny. I’ve gotta go. Don’t worry.”

“Then I’ll come with you—”

“Benny.” This gently. “I can’t take you. I’m sorry.”

Benny sinks into a chair, letting his hands cover his face. “I’m going to lose everyone,” he murmurs.

Dean kneels beside him and reaches forward to kiss him. Thinks better of it, seeing Castiel’s dead expression as he’d tried to strangle Benny and pats him on the arm instead. The gesture seems remarkably weak. “Benny, think about it this way. With people like Castiel on our side, how can we lose?”

Benny doesn’t look up, merely shudders. The bruising mottling his throat has begun to purple.

“It seems to me,” Abner says, switching the view table off completely, “like a great deal of fuss over what’s frankly a rather small incident within the scope of what we’ve seen during the course of our revolution.”

“You didn’t see the attack.” Victor motions to his soldiers to converge on the door. “It was… eerie. That’s the only word I can think of. His expression wasn’t quite human.”

“We’ve all seen inhumanity. I daresay we’ll see more.” Abner’s gesture toward the monitor above the door seems impatient with human foibles. “Now. I’ve a meeting. I leave you in charge, Victor. Smith has tactical command of his own people. I’m sending you along as observer and to offer support if necessary and to watch our backs. You have… Rainbow how much time?”

“Eighteen hours,” Rainbow answers.

  


.oOo.

  


Dean meets Jody in a holding cell adjacent to and looking into the high security cell where Victor’s soldiers have incarcerated Castiel. From where he’s standing by the door, Dean can see through a translucent window to where Castiel is lying on his back on the hard plastic bench that is the room’s only piece of furniture. He’s lying perfectly still, hands cupped under the disarray of his hair, eyes shut. The only movement discernable is the slight rise and fall of his chest as he breaths.

“He looks like he’s in a coma,” Dean says.

Evidently there’s some apprehension in his voice, because Jody smiles and rests a comforting hand on Dean’s tense back. “I don’t think so. When he came to after the stun blast wore off, he trembled, like he had a palsy for at least fifteen minutes. No one went in. I wasn’t allowed to speak to him. Then he stopped, like he’d controlled it somehow and he took one circuit around the room hand on the wall like,” she raises her eyebrows in surprise, “it just occurred to me now, like he was using touch to gain information, then he lay down. He’s been like that ever since.”

“Wonderful,” Dean says, running a hand through his hair in a nervous gesture. “Damn,” he mutters under his breath.

“He must have an incredible memory,” Jody says a little too casually, “to link you saying Benny’s name over comm with your former lover. How’d he know he had the right person?”

“He _can’t_ have known. He may’ve known I’d two lovers before him.” Dean considers this. Castiel had known, but Dean hadn’t told him. Castiel had told Dean himself. He’d never discovered how Castiel had found out. “Well, he knew that much,” Dean goes on, not ready to divulge this information to Jody. “But I _never_ told him their names or anything about them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. I never thought it was any of his business.” Jody still regards him skeptically. “Someday when we’re not under surveillance, I have a long story to tell you.”

“Dean.” Jody laughs, glancing at the tall man in the other cell. “I don’t doubt it.”

“But…” Dean’s expression hardens. “Right now I’ve got a new assignment. I’m going to ask you to volunteer for a dangerous job, Jody. You can refuse if you have to. I know you’ve got dependents. I could use you, because of your experience, but not at their cost. Something can be arranged—”

“Dean.” Jody lets one hand indicate the empty loops on her tight fitting mercenary’s rig that usually carry weapons. Weapons now in the custody of Jehane’s troops. “What am I? A mercenary. No matter who I hire out to, Alex and Owen risk losing me. I’ve made what provisions I can, left them with some collateral and a plan of action to follow. Alex is cannier than she seems, she just rarely lets it show.” Jody touches her hand to her forehead in a mocking salute. “Creaser fired me. Now you’re hiring. I’m yours.”

“You could join Jehane. I can’t even pay you, Jody.”

“But I trust you. I’m not working in big organizations anymore, not after… my previous experience. Bureaucracy loses you and you lose yourself. I’m hiring on with _you_ and Sam.”

Dean sighs, looking down at the short hair crowning Jody’s head, at her handsome face, creased both by self-control and hardship, at the breadth of her shoulders and the muscled length of her arms. “Well, I’m not going to let you go as easily as Creaser did. You’re too much of an asset.”

Jody grins and offers him another mock salute.

Dean sighs again, exasperated. “I haven’t even told you what the job is and it _is_ dangerous.”

Jody shrugs nonchalantly. “You can’t fight what’s fated.”

For a moment Dean regards her in disbelief. “ _I_ can,” he says decisively.

Jody grins again. “That’s what I like about you, Dean.”

“Go on.” Dean slaps her on the shoulder. “The one named Victor will return your weapons to you and you’ll have a few minutes at the shuttle to talk to Alex and Owen. Bring Sam and Baby back with you. Now I need to see Castiel.” Behind them, the door to the corridor opens.

Jody salutes, no sign of mockery now as she leaves the cell. “Luck to you.”

Dean frowns, tapping in a sequence on the keypad beside the window and braces himself to step into the next room.

He stops just inside the door which shuts behind him. There’s a moment’s dead silence. Castiel doesn’t move, doesn’t even seem to register his presence in the room. His eyes remain shut.

“Hello, Dean,” he says.

The comment comes so quietly out of the silence, without even a movement from Castiel to foreshadow it. Dean glances around at the featureless, grey interior. “I was told this cell was sound and sight proof.”

Now he opens his eyes, to reveal their piercing blue, with a hint of their glow shining in their depths. “It is.” He sits up, a movement at once awkward and nimble at the same time. He lowers a hand to pat the bench beside him invitingly.

Dean doesn’t move. “Then how’d you know it was me? You weren’t looking. I never took my eyes off you and I didn’t say anything.”

For a long moment he doesn’t reply, but Dean feels that Castiel is measuring some aspect of him closely, carefully and with the greatest concentration. That whatever conclusion he reaches based on that measurement will determine the entire course of his behavior. For an instant, Dean feels Castiel tremble on the edge of his control and then abruptly he relaxes, visibly when Dean hadn’t even known he was tense, and leans back against the wall with alazy and sensual smile. 

“Come sit with me?” he asks.

That Dean is tempted to go and take what Castiel is offering even at a time like this irritates him. “Castiel, stop it.”

He sits, watching Dean expectantly, like Dean is the one who needs to explain. He seems utterly calm and reasonable. Dean allows himself to lean back against the wall, hands loose at his sides and just looks at him. The exotic handsomeness that’d first attracted Dean to him isn’t so much the component parts of simple physical beauty but rather a combination of unusual yet graceful features underlaid with a blend of mystery and, he reflects with bitter irony now, danger.

“Even if he’s dead,” Castiel says, “what possible reason can he have had to be executed as Athena?”

The vision of Benny choking under Castiel’s tanned hands is so strongly in Dean’s mind’s eye, he can’t at first decipher Castiel’s question. He feels momentarily like he’s wandered into the wrong conversation.

“Athena? You’re talking about Bobby?” Dean shoves himself away from the wall and walks over to stand directly in front of him. “ _I_ want to talk about _Benny_. Do you remember him? The man you just tried to murder?”

Dean’s anger emanates like a force off of him, but Castiel’s initial response is to reach up and enclose Dean’s hands in his own, drawing them to his lips. He doesn’t kiss them, merely holds them there, like he’s trying to breathe Dean in.

He sinks forward off the bench and, kneeling, embraces Dean. He stays there, head against Dean’s abdomen, face hidden by his hair. His seeming vulnerability drains Dean’s anger.

“He’s not my lover anymore,” Dean says, grasping for outrage. “That’s long past. You’ve got nothing, _nothing,_ to be jealous of.”

“I know,” he murmurs, although he doesn’t relax his grip.

“Jehane’s people’ve accepted my explanation. They’ll let you go. But it won’t happen again. Will it?”

“As long as I’m never in the same room with him.”

“Castiel!” Dean puts his hands on either side of his face and tilts his head back so he can see Castiel’s expression. “I just promised you that he won’t be my lover again. Do you understand? All other things aside, I don’t desire him in that way anymore.” Dean leans down to kiss him.

It proves a more potent gesture than he intended. Somehow, with pressing and touching and the smooth flow of long practice, he finds himself lying on the bench next to Castiel in an intimate embrace. Inappropriate for such a time and yet he thinks it might be better to reassure Castiel, and he’s so close and so nice to hold.

Castiel is the one who pulls away. His expression bears no rage, no jealous fury, just simple resignation. “It doesn’t matter,” he says quietly. Deep in Castiel’s voice Dean hears the echo of an old wrenching sorrow. “I have to kill him. Now that you know that, you can keep me away from him.”

“ _Why_?”

Castiel breaks away from Dean and pushes up off of the bench to his feet, finding refuge in the corner opposite the bench. “ _Don’t ask me that_. I thought I’d finally escaped. _Abai’is-ssa_.” The alien word slips out of him too naturally. “I should’ve known better. You should’ve left me on Arcadia.” He doesn’t look at Dean as he speaks.

“Yes,” Dean replies as he too stands up. “You said something like that before. But Benny’s one of my oldest friends. Do you expect me to let it go at that? Who’re you going to attack next? Me?”

Now Castiel turns. His face is set in a mask of sheer impersonal threat, like a red warning light signaling the entrance to a danger zone that’s off limits to all personnel who don’t have the complete envelopment of a life suit.

“ _Never suggest that to me_.” He looks so revolted by the thought that Dean feels embarrassed, like he’d set out to deliberately offend him. “There may be people who’re that sick, to kill their own lovers. I’m not one of them.”

His anger completely deflates Dean’s. It seems impossible facing him now to force the issue. Dean takes in a single rather shaky breath to calm himself. Once they’ve left Hexham there’ll be time.

“I’m not suggesting,” Dean starts slowly, leaping back to his first question, like the ensuing conversation had not taken place, “that Bobby meant to be executed as Athena, but if he was caught and knew they’d kill him, and infiltrating their entire defense network was clearly treason, I think he convinced them he was Athena. If only to leave a trail of confusion as his final legacy. After all, Athena’s free to work openly again for a while.”

“I still don’t see,” Castiel replies, taking up the thread of this conversation without any hesitation, “how Bobby _could_ be caught.”

“‘You were caught…”

“By the League, a government far in advance of Central in such techniques, I assure you.”

“I thought the League’d forsworn any contact with the kind of espionage you and Master Smith use.”

Castiel smiles bitterly. “Forsworn, yes. But not forgotten. That’d be foolish indeed. ‘Beware the Jabberwock, my son!’ We’re dangerous unpredictable beasts.”

“Oh, what does it matter?” Dean questions in frustration. “How they caught him or how he came to be identified as Athena. He’s dead.”

Castiel walks across to him in three swift strides. “Dean,” he murmurs, soothing, and cradles Dean against him.

“We don’t have time for this,” Dean mutters into Castiel’s shirt although he doesn’t pull away. “Do you remember someone I talked about named Paisley?”

He considers and nods. “A Ridani girl. Indentured to Hexham. I see. A victim of the terrible prejudice in this area.” Castiel shakes his head. “Only in such a backward pioneer culture—”

“What’s ‘pioneer’?” Dean pulls back from him. “And you needn’t use that patronizing tone of voice. I’ve never seen League space. I’ve got no proof you come from there, or that Master Smith did, or sensei Barnes. You might all be making it up.”

Cas laughs. “My dear Dean, have I ever told you that you speak Anglais with the most delightful primitive accent?”

Dean knows perfectly well that Castiel, Bobby and sensei Barnes, are incontrovertibly not citizens of Riven space, that they’ve indeed come from far away across the old lost roads. From the home planets from which humans and Cirriath long ago migrated to Riven space. So he only removes himself from his grasp and walks to stand beside the thin seam of the cell door. “Sometimes I forget about _your_ accent,” Dean says. “Although,” he adds thoughtfully, “Master Smith never had one.”

“That’s because he used to be an actor. Now what about Paisley?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for Dean to put his plan into action.
> 
> * * *

Through the helmet of his suit, Dean can hear the slow hiss of liquid burning through plastic. A forgotten toy, left to fall on the tunnel floor in the panic after the first explosions. They’ve seen the results of that panic. On leaving the central shaft at the deepest tunnel in the 20s dig, level nine, they find on the other side of the lock a cluster of at least a hundred bodies. Most have decayed badly, eaten through by the poisonous atmosphere, though some are still recognizable as Ridanis.

At the very front of the grisly remains lies the body of a woman clutching a small child, like she’d been more desperate than the rest with such a burden, or the others had thrust her forward in the hope that the child at least could be saved. Now, watching the drip of some acidic fluid, released from a half-broken pipe by the jostle of a passing boot, Dean wonders if the little doughnut shaped object that’s slowly disintegrating under the touch of that liquid was dropped by the same child.

They pause to consult the map. Victor kneels beside Chevron, a Ridani man who’s worked in these diggings. Behind, his subordinate Drexel stands with his ten troopers, flanked by Victor’s cousin Kelvin and the Ridani trooper Rainbow.

Silence hangs over them heavy and enclosing. The microphones on the helmets accentuate the low voices of Victor and Chevron as they discuss their route, the light scraping of boot on rock, hands tapping guns, as Drexel’s soldiers shift, restless underneath so much earth. The floors, walls and ceiling of the tunnel, although broad and high, are roughhewn and incomplete in the beams of light lancing out from their helmets.

Jody stands in an open door, a gap in the tunnel wall, turning her head back and forth slowly as she uses her light to sweep the room beyond. Her hand, encased in the same slick material that makes up their standard government guard issue coveralls and much of their helmets, tightens on an outthrust knob of rock as she counts bodies. Ahead, Castiel kneels alone in semidarkness. He’s shut his helmet light off.

After a moment Jody pushes away from the doorway and returns to crouch by Sam and Dean. She leans forward until her helmet touches theirs. “It’s enough to make you join Jehane.” Her voice sounds muffled and tinny through the mike and the thin remains of the poisonous atmosphere. “It’s occurred to me that if what we’re wearing is standard issue, then none of the prisoners had any protective gear at all.”

“Stops them from escaping.” Sam grunts

“Right. I wouldn’t attempt the surface even in _this_ , and neither would you. But why would the guards wear this gear in the mines if they thought it was completely safe? It’s a precaution against this kind of disaster.” She makes a gesture of disgust. Her gloved hand brushes the wall, causing the dripping pipe to stop leaking but leaving the discarded toy lying pathetically in two melted halves. “Although what else I’d expect from Central I can’t imagine. The sort of people they’d indenture to Hexham certainly weren’t worth the price of one of these suits.”

“How many bodies did you count?” Dean asks.

“I stopped at fifty. Say, we didn’t lose the ’bot, did we?”

“No, she went ahead to sound out the thickness and stability of the rock separating the two digs. I loaded the map and sent her off.” Dean uses the butt of his rifle to jostle the pipe so it leaks again, dissolving the toy into a lump of unrecognizable slag.

Jody turns her head to watch Dean’s movement and stands. “Hey!” Her shout carries at least as far as Victor, despite the dampening hush of the tunnel. “Castiel! Are you crazy? There’re chemicals in this air that’ll eat right through your skin.”

In the darkness of the tunnel, Dean can scarcely see Castiel’s figure, enveloped in the murky fabric of the guard suit, until a flash of bare hand alerts him to his position.

“Cas!” Jody repeats.

Dean feels a person pushing pass him, grabs and finds Sam in his grasp.

“I’ll take care of this,” he says, sweeping past Sam. “Are you crazy?” he asks as he comes up beside Castiel.

He turns, his tall figure an outline against blackness in Dean’s helmet light. “Probably. Why do you ask?”

“Do you wanna lose that hand? You heard what they said about the atmosphere down here. You saw the bodies. Or do you think you’re immune?”

He doesn’t reply immediately, but Dean can tell from his posture and his eyes behind the helmet that he’s smiling. “Did you know,” he says at last as he slowly slips the long glove back on his hand, “that this tunnel’s almost one hundred and seventy five years old? It’s no wonder they had trouble. They doubtless didn’t maintain it properly.”

“Doubtless,” Dean replies gruffly, not interested in humoring him. “I didn’t have time for any research except what Abner summed up for us before we left. Come on.” He waves to Victor and he and Chevron come forward to lead them on. It takes him some minutes of careful walking over the uneven rock floor to realize that Castiel didn’t have time, or opportunity, for research either.

The transition from the main level nine tunnel to a side, working shaft, comes as a shock to one accustomed to the smooth bored shafts of the Campbell House mines, built to accommodate machines and free miners who can easily choose to move on to more agreeable working conditions.

They have to crawl single file on their hands and knees over sharp, uneven rock. Now and then, the shaft opens into a pocket where seven or eight might assemble, if they pack tightly together, either for a break or to facilitate entrance into a new series of shafts, but in these pockets the sense of claustrophobic heaviness is heightened, if anything. In Campbell House, there isn’t a single shaft that you don’t have enough height to stand in, or width enough to walk three abreast. The Sar has always believed that a well-treated worker produces the best work. It is a philosophy he drilled into all of his family. Dean can appreciate it now.

In at least half of the pockets they have to maneuver pass corpses and once Victor has to push a decaying corpse bodily ahead of him until there’s room to shove it to one side. Two of Drexel’s ten disintegrate under this confinement and are sent back to wait at the central elevator shaft. One man is sobbing softly to himself but can’t bring himself to backtrack that ground alone.

After several stalls and one very long wait where the ceiling is pressing into his back, his elbows scraping against the walls, Dean emerges at last into what seems an enormous room. As roughhewn as the others, it is large enough to contain the entire party. Drexel and his eight remaining soldiers, Victor, Kelvin, Rainbow, Chevron, and himself, Sam, Jody, and Castiel. Close, but nevertheless all of them.

Crouching beside Victor, Dean trains his light passed the oversize comm-screen the officer holds and watches as Chevron shifts the pointer until it shows their current location and the shaft they’ve chosen to lead them to the 30s.

“Here it be,” he says, showing a shaft that trails into a similar grid of shafts branching out from tunnel 30-09. “Close enough I reckon that ya easer should sure be put together here. Won’t be another such broad’ning before ya drill shall come tae use.”

Victor nods and speaks into his wrist-comm to Drexel, who’s crouching across the pocket from him. He immediately signals to those of his people who’ve carried the components in and within a reasonable space of time the drill’s assembled. It’s about the length of Dean’s arm and as thick as his torso.

“Hold on,” Victor says. “What happened to the power pack? We can’t use it like this.”

“Don’t worry,” Dean tells him. “Come on. We’re running short of time.”

“Right.” Even distorted by the mike, Victor’s reply is sarcastic. “Drexel, follow us at the specified distance and remain _only_ until oh four fifteen. Then return to the surface and leave. Understood?”

Drexel hesitates, but replies in the affirmative.

“I’ll take it,” Dean says to Chevron, but he shakes his head.

“So much,” he explains, gesturing with the drill, “I can do for ya people trapped in ya thirties.”

Dean shrugs and lets Chevron precede him into the shaft. They crawl in silence. He feels more and more keenly not the incalculable weight of kilometers of rock a hand’s breadth above his back, because he’s known that on Kansas. Here, it is the tiny space through which they move that unsettles him. Fantasies of collapse, of bodies pinned by stone. All he can hear of the others behind him is their smothered breathing and once a curse of pain. A conviction that he’s about to crawl into a corpse in the last stages of disintegration seizes him with such terrifying force that he stops moving.

A hand touches his ankle. A helmet brushes his hip. “‘For thou art my rock and my fortress; therefore for thy name’s sake lead me, and guide me,’” Cas says. His voice seems peculiarly clear in their confinement.

Dean’s breath shudders out of him. Like an echo, ahead, two small amber lights blink. A moment later Chevron blocks his view, but Dean starts forward again.

“Baby,” he whispers. “Thank you.” As he nears the end of the tunnel he can hear the robot singing.

  
_Yeah, down in the graveyard where we have our tryst_  
_The air smells sweet, the air smells sick_

Chevron comes to a confused halt, seeing this apparition and Dean reaches forward to grab his ankle. “That’s your power source,” he says. “Let me show you.” He can’t whistle in the helmet, so he calls out and Baby, complaining the whole time in a low undersong about the rough surfaces of the tiny shaft which threaten to scratch her exterior polish, floats up to them and allows Dean to holster her to the easer drill once he’s moved up alongside Chevron.

Dean moves backward, giving Chevron room to work. “I’ll be glad to get out of here,” he says, his voice low as he speaks to Cas. “The mines on Kansas weren’t anything like this. My grandfather would _never_ have allowed it. Imagine if this place collapsed.”

Cast has squeezed in beside him, a very tight fit, and he chuckles. “‘And the height of the rock above the head of the workmen was a hundred cubits.’”

“Cubits?” Dean asks, but Baby starts singing at the same time as Chevron thrusts the drill forward to the end of the shaft.

“What’s she singing?” Cas asks.

“Something about—rivers of Babylon.” Dean shrugs. “I can’t hear her.”

Chevron settles into place, about ten meters in front of them and starts to drill.

Spitting sparks of light, a sudden rise in temperature and pressure on his eardrums are the only signs that the drilling’s in progress. If it makes noise, it can’t be heard above the muted sound of Baby singing.

“Someplace named Zion,” Dean says. “Where’s your rifle?”

Castiel pats a long shape tucked in between his knees, briefly touches the shock grenades on his belt and lets his hand come to rest on Dean’s waist, a gesture almost protective. Behind them, he senses more than sees Jody’s movements as she checks her weapons and loosens the straps that hold them against her body. Farther back, Victor speaks to his cousin, but his words are lost in the muffling air. The faint beams of Sam’s and Rainbow’s helmet lights cast a luminescent glow on the same mineral vein cut along the shaft wall. Behind them—a wall of solid blackness.

They wait.

A slight shift in pressure in his inner ear.

“Here we go,” Dean says, moving forward all the way pass Castiel. “He’s got equilibrium.”

Chevron doesn’t stop working, but the pattern of his drilling changes. Dean passes through a recent pocket, almost full now with the rubble of the current drilling and wiggles forward into the new shaft, crawling almost on his belly. Chevron pauses as Dean comes up behind him.

“I pierced through, min,” he explains. Around him, the walls gleam like they’re hot, but Dean can feel nothing through his coveralls. “We be coming in at ya angle, so I mean to bear down ya circle here, so ya last dislodging shall make ya least stirring.”

“Good.”

Baby blinks amber lights at him, but no longer sings as Chevron goes back to work. Sparks fly, cut off as a cracking noise shudders the air. Flipping a switch on the drill, Chevron eases away a meter wide circle of rock. Dean’s amazed at how thin it is, a sure sign of the precision of Baby’s sounding and Chevron’s skill.

“Thank you,” Dean says to him as he helps him detach Baby from the drill. He looks back at his six companions and crawls through into the 30s, leaving Chevron behind them.

It’s like entering another world. For a moment he hesitates until he realizes that they’ve come into a dig supervised to standards more befitting a House mine. With a roll and a push, Dean slips down the side of the sloping wall and stands up on a mercifully smooth floor. If he raises his hands he can touch the ceiling, but he can stand and Baby has ample room to drift beside him as he crouches, gun raised, and peers in both directions.

The shaft’s deserted and silent. A small antenna rises out of Baby and after a moment of dense quiet she gives a four note whistle, _All clear, one hundred meters._

He motions to Castiel and the others clamber out of the shaft behind him. Dean surveys them briefly and sets out to the right toward the main tunnel.

The shaft’s empty, lit by an uninterrupted string of tube lighting. Shafts branch out at irregular intervals and three times they have to climb long stretches of ladders bolted to the rock face. At last the intensity of the light ahead changes and Dean knows they’re nearing the shaft’s opening into the main level nine tunnel.

He puts a hand back, stopping the six people behind him and reaches up to tap an acknowledgment of previous commands into Baby’s keypad. She blinks lights, a quick pattern, instead of replying in song, rising to the ceiling and goes forward alone.

Victor pushes quietly past Jody and Castiel and crouches beside Dean. He waits for a while in silence. Shifts once and then speaks in an undertone.

“You really think this’s going to work?”

Beneath the concealing mask of his helmet, Dean smiles. “I think so. She’ll go up the elevator maintenance ladder just like we will, only faster. Once she gets to the power plant’s main console, we’re free. No one’ll expect Baby.”

Victor considers this in silence for a time before replying. “I’ve never seen a ’bot like that, and I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. Where’d you say you got it?”

He starts to reply but hears voices, crouches and positions his rifle. The voices pass, evidently guards patrolling the main tunnel.

“How many prisoners can we expect to be down here?” Dean asks after a suitable interval.

Victor shakes his head. “I can’t guess. Not many. This deep the only cells are for violent or political repeat offenders. My great-grandmother’s brother spent time on Hexham.”

“What for?”

“Triple murder. Died here, too. Story is he got in a vendetta and was taken out with one of those old vibration drills.”

“Fuck.” Dean shudders. “That’s terrible.”

Victor chuckles. “Yeah. Because we’re Monists, we got the body back for proper burial. My old grand-pap once told me that there wasn’t much left.”

“Is this true?” Dean demands. Victor inclines his head, recognizing the question, but he retreats back to stand beside his cousin without answering. Quiet descends on the little group.

They wait.

Dean feels one foot begin to go numb and shifts it. Now and again he looks back to check Sam, Jody and Castiel, but they all remain still and absolutely quiet. Rainbow coughs once or twice a low sound and Victor whispers something to Kelvin, followed by a muffled laugh from the cousin.

More time passes. Inevitably, his mind wanders from the task at hand. He thinks of the dead Ridanis in the shaft they passed through. The Sar never employed Ridanis, but Dean knows him well enough to know that he wouldn’t countenance a policy that condemns them to such a horrible death. He feels a sudden and unexpected urge to tell Samuel what he’s doing now. It’s strange, thinking of Campbell House after having been away so long. Perhaps he’d even approve of Sam and Dean’s new lives. But the chance to explain is unlikely to present itself. With a sigh, Dean checks his wrist-comm for the hour.

Without warning, without any transition whatsoever, the lights go out.

Dean stands, banishing nostalgia in an instant because it’s time to act. “Let’s go.”

They come out into the tunnel just as a low, moaning alarm starts to wail, seeming to come from deep beneath the walls of the main tunnel. The beam of Dean’s helmet lamp sweeps a sheen of smooth wall and ceiling, stopping on a dead surveillance camera, before moving to Victor.

“You, Kelvin, Sam and Jody, take out the A Block guards. Castiel and Rainbow are with me.”

He sets off at a lope down the straight corridor. They meet no one until they cross the circular intersection surrounding the huge central elevator shaft, but coming around the curve they almost run into two guards, helmet lights still off as they stand surprised by the blackout.

Dean takes one down using his rifle to sweep the man off his feet, using the butt to club him unconscious on the floor. He turns to see Castiel with a hard grip on the second, his rifle pressing against the guard’s head. All Dean can see is the terrified widening of the guard’s eyes. The rest of his face is hidden by the breathing mask.

“Kill him,” Castiel says. He fires and a blast of light streaks out. The guard collapses.

Dean hesitates, still straddling the unconscious man at his feet. Castiel swings his gun around and shoots.

The heat stench rises up to him, a fine thread. He feels sick, doesn’t want to look down to see what’s now lying beneath his feet. Rainbow’s already moving on, up the C Block corridor, rifle raised.

“You’ve never killed anyone, have you,” Castiel asks.

Dean manages to shake his head.

“Catch,” he says and Dean grabs the rifle Castiel tosses to him.

“What—”

“That’s yours until you’ve killed someone.”

“But you’re unarmed!”

“And I’m going straight in,” he promises as he follows Rainbow.

Dean curses and moves, stumbling on the body and runs after Castiel. Needing him as a vital part of the team, it hadn’t occurred to Dean that he might put Cas in danger. Or else, he realizes as he passes Cas, passes Rainbow, that when he acts, all other considerations vanish. At the C Block lock he pounds frantically at the door. It opens to reveal a guard, tense but unsuspecting.

“Emergency,” Dean gasps out, thrusting past him, passing the second open lock door and into the main guardroom.

Opening up with his rifle as he dives behind a console.

It’s over in seconds. Rainbow evidently shoots the man in the lock, because moments later, as Dean sweats in the silence, huddling behind the console, he sees Castiel enter, distinctive in the relaxed precision of his walk.

“One’s still alive,” Castiel tells him and Dean needs to stand up, to survey the five guards. Three are half-dressed, like they’ve just woken up. Most are sprayed with blood and gaping wounds. Castiel stands there as the wounded man rolls, reaching for the gun dropped by his dead compatriot and lifts it to aim at his nearest clear target, Cas.

Dean shoots him in the head and he slumps forward over the other body. Rainbow walks forward and starts searching the bodies.

Dean walks to the door pausing by Castiel long enough to shove his rifle back him so hard he has to take three steps back.

“I hate you,” he mutters. “Rainbow! What’re you doing?”

“Got it.” Rainbow stands. “Ya manual keypad for ya cells. Free ya prisoners.”

Her voice seems so nonchalant, Dean fills with a wrenching rage at her seeming ability to kill so casually. He turns and walks out. He waits in the empty corridor until Castiel and Rainbow emerge a few minutes later.

“We checked the other rooms,” Castiel says. “They’re clear.”

From some deep recess of memory that he’s forgotten exists flashes a vivid picture of Master Smith sitting cross-legged on the floor of his Academy’s dojo, watching him as he did a particularly complicated kata. “Yes,” Bobby says in this memory, “yes. In this move you strike directly to the temple. Done so, with proper alignment, you kill your opponent with that single blow.” His face remained impassive, like killing was an abstract ideal that never touched reality, like the opponent was always an idealized shadow of one’s self, echoing your own movements across space. Dean wonders, standing there in the light of the three helmet beams, how many people Bobby had killed in the course of his very long life.

The tube lighting along the walls flick on. Off. On. Low wattage power, almost grey and the whirring of the auxiliary venting system straining to kick in.

Dean forces himself to relax the grip on his rifle, finger by finger. “Come on,” he says, more to himself than his companions.

They meet the other four by the metal door leading to the meter-square maintenance shaft that runs parallel, opening out from the central elevator shaft. The door’s ajar.

“I don’t believe it.” Victor says. “The ’bot really did it.”

“Who do you think cut the power?” Dean asks.

“Maybe Main Block finally tapped through and cut it.”

“Maybe that’s what the guards’ll think. We can hope. Did you clear all three corridors? Good.” In the distance they can hear prisoners shouting to each other across the cell tunnel. “Rainbow. Release one prisoner, then follow us up. Sam wait for her here and lock the shaft behind you.” His brother nods.

Rainbow pauses to look up at the ceiling. “It be ya sore long way to ya surface dome, min.”

“I know.” Dean steps through the door and sets one hand on a ladder rung. “That’s why they won’t be expecting us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Dancing With Mister D** by _The Rolling Stones._  
>  **Rivers of Babylon** by _Boney M._


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a long way up.
> 
> * * *

They climb.

Dean’s hands start hurting first, from being curled around the metal rungs, then the arches of his feet, from pushing off all the time. Eventually his back starts to ache as well, right around the shoulders and between the shoulder blades.

Rainbow starts to lose ground fairly soon. Sam, climbing behind her, stays with her even when she offers to move to the side allowing him to pass. Victor and Kelvin keep up until they pass the door marking level six and then their lights too start receding into the vast depths of blackness that surrounds them.

Dean has to stop just above level five. He laces his elbows around a rung and lets his hands hang open, breathing hard. Below, Jody stops as well, but Castiel continues up until he’s overlapping Dean. Letting go with one hand, Cas massages each of his palms in turn.

“Shit,” Dean huffs. “You’d think it was three kilometers between levels instead of a third.”

“It’ll get worse,” Castiel replies cheerfully.

It does. Dean reaches a point where he can block the pain lancing through his muscles, but the stops become more frequent and the relief they afford less and less. Once he hears a curse far below and he trains his light down to see Kelvin dangling and pulling himself back onto the ladder with Victor’s help. Sam’s and Rainbow’s lights are lost in the deep black beneath. The air stirs around them.

“Damn it,” Jody curses from below. “Would you turn that light back to the wall? I’m terrified of heights.”

Castiel laughs.

Dean starts up again. They’ve long since passed level two when a red light snaps on some meters above Dean’s head. He flips off his light immediately and the others vanish as well.

“They’ve restored power,” he calls softly downward. “It’s been,” he checks the gleaming numbers on his wrist-comm, “over four hours. We’ll wait for the others to catch up.”

“How much time do we have left?” Jody asks. Her voice, even at a whisper, causes strange reverberations in the shaft.

“Enough.”

“Damn my eyes if I don’t ache like a Senator’s—”

There’s a noise above, an echoing, deep click and a heavy humming. Pressure starts to increase against their faces and shoulders, stirring the rifles slung over their backs.

“Hold on,” Castiel tells them. “The elevator’s coming down.”

Dean wraps his arms around the vertical poles of the ladder and hugs himself against the metal, hooking his knees around a rung, pressing as flat as he can. Then he shuts his eyes.

The wind roars past, ripping at them, as the elevator descends. The hum increases until it shakes the ladder itself. The rungs vibrate like they’re trying to throw off these intruders. Just as the noise and wind seem unbearable, the blank wall of the elevator slides past. Dean hugs the ladder so tightly that he gets imprints in his skin and he feels the wall of the elevator jostle his rifle. He holds his breath until mercifully it slides past and continues down.

“Fuck,” he says, wanting to start climbing but holds on until, after an interminable time he hears Victor hailing him.

“Are all four of you there?” he asks in return.

“Kelvin is about fifty rungs below me and your brother and the Ridani are at least one hundred below him, but we’re still climbing.”

“Just one level to go.” Dean starts the slow rung-to-rung ascent, propelled now more by a strong desire to beat the elevator’s inevitable return trip than by the burst of strength that comes from nearing the goal.

The last gap between level one and the surface seems the longest, but at last they’re met by blinking amber lights.

When he reaches Baby, Dean merely rests his head against the cool sheen of her curves for long moments. He can hear Jody’s ragged breathing and a little later Victor and Kelvin stop below her. Castiel remains silent and still at his feet.

At a brief whistle from Dean, Baby recounts her mission in beautiful four part counterpoint, softly serenading the climbers.

_Affirmative, Dean. None discerned my ascent or trail unto the main computer. And lest they suspect my ploy, I did engage the power overrides so that it might appear to their technicians that an overload had occurred. Was it well done?_

“Very well done, Baby,” Dean answers her, unable to muster up the breath to whistle. “This ladder goes all the way up to the control center?”

_Affirmative. I have ascertained the main control center does indeed rest upon the top of this elevator shaft and this ladder does as well ascend to a door that should open unto such center. Although such as have built this place have also locked this door._

“We expected that,” Castiel says, once Dean translates. “We’ll have to send Samhain up to set charges.”

“Samhain? Castiel, do you make up these strange names? Don’t answer. Are Sam and Rainbow up with us yet?”

Sam’s voice from below. “We’re here.”

“Last instructions. Kelvin, you and Baby set the explosives. Jody, you, Sam and Rainbow wait by this ladder. When the charge goes you must be first up the ladder to the command center and Baby is to come in right behind you.”

“Check,” Jody replies, her voice flat with concentration.

“Victor and Kelvin, you’ll follow me. Castiel will be going up the ramp to the control center alone. We’ll wait until he’s inside, then we hit as soon as he attacks.”

“Hold on.” Victor sounds, for the first time, skeptical and angry. “I don’t intend to commit suicide. That’s a three-meter wide ramp up to the control dome, with two mounted laser guns at the top placed for cross fire.”

“Change of plans,” Dean says. “It’ll work.”

“Forget it.”

Dean waits a moment, controlling his voice and then speaks. “Cas, tell them.”

“I’ve six shock grenades. Four thrown to the four corners when the ladder hatch explodes and two into the laser emplacements, which are manual, I believe. That’ll give you a good five seconds with most of the personnel in the dome stunned. Of course, you’ll have to watch your back.”

“But that will leave _you_ stunned and a sitting target.”

“Maybe.” Angel’s voice is colorless.

Dean starts to climb. Baby rises ahead of him. “We haven’t got time for this. Move it.”

Kelvin passes them at the main dome level door and he and Baby go on up. Kelvin returns quickly, however.

“There’s a lock on this side,” he murmurs to Dean. “The ’bot says he can blow it.”

Above, he hears a faint whine, like a drill. “Shit. Damn show off. All right, hand me up the manual key. We’re going out.”

It takes a moment for the small rectangular keypad to pass from hand to hand, but Dean disengages the lock on his first try. He takes a breath, lets it out and swings the door aside.

It opens out into a corridor. He steps out easy like he’s meant to be there and finds himself in a narrow empty corridor. He motions the others out quickly.

Jody immediately kneels by the door and, after a hesitation, Rainbow stops beside her, rubbing her arms with one hand. Sam takes up position directly behind Jody, facing behind them, coving their flank. Dean waits for Castiel to disappear alone around the bend in the corridor, then he walks forward with Victor and Kelvin at his heels.

Around the bend the corridor comes to an end. A door opens into a long, narrow maintenance room and a second opening gives access to a large, brightly lit corridor arcing around the curve of the elevator shaft. Down it, Dean hears voices, a few raised, and then one angry, that he recognizes.

“You idiot, we have a complete security breach in level nine—”

Dean signals Victor and Kelvin forward. As they round the corner, they see Castiel berating two guards, who are wearing the same standard issue coveralls they are. The two guards, cowed by Castiel’s apparent authority, quickly turn to escort him toward the broad hall through which equipment is loaded into the elevator and which holds, on one side, the long ramp that leads to the central dome above.

Castiel pulls down his breathing mask so the guards can clearly see the scorn on his face as he keeps up a constant flow of furious criticism about security breaches and incompetent level supervisors. Dean can’t quite hear the details. As they enter the hall Dean makes a small sign with his hand and splits off from the other two, filtering into the restless gathering of armed guards.

“—must’ve been a malfunction. Damn rebels would’ve attacked by now.”

“—keep us off guard—”

“—I heard prisoners on level seven sabotaged the—”

He moves along the wall until he stands opposite the ramp, and looking up it he sees Castiel walking alone, seemingly oblivious to the muzzles of the big laser guns trained on his approach. Dean catches Victor’s eye to his left and starts pressing nonchalantly forward toward the ramp.

A second’s high piercing whine warns him. An instant later a muffled explosion sounds from above and he breaks into a run as the rest of the guards are registering the sound. Dean reaches the ramp as a series of low _pops_ betray the concussions of the shock grenades Castiel has thrown. Behind, footsteps ring on the ramp, but he doesn’t have time to turn to see whose they are, he only hears the heavy shooting start.

Fifteen meters up the ramp seems like a kilometer with the muzzles of two laser guns pointing straight at him. A burst of light shoots out at Dean. He hits the floor, rolling, hears a scream of pain behind and comes up running as ahead he hears Castiel yelling his name.

Metal rings beneath his boots and he’s through the double doors. His first sight is Castiel wrestling the gunner at the laser emplacement to the ground. Opposite, a guard draws himself to his knees and aims a rifle down the ladder shaft. It takes Dean two shots to cut him down and he sees a head emerge from the shaft. Jody.

People stir at the consoles. A woman reaches for a gun. Dean turns, dropping to his knees and fires over the heads of Victor and Kelvin into a line of guards pounding up the ramp. Holding his fire, he notices in an abstract way that Victor is struggling behind his cousin, a trail of red following him.

One of the laser guns wakes and sweeps fire through the first two lines of guards. They fall back, hesitating. Dean turns to cover his back, dropping to his belly, but Jody methodically picks off everybody left in the command center from behind the body of the guard by the ladder. Behind her, Rainbow fires in bursts down the shaft as Sam moves to the second gun emplacement. He shoots the still stunned man in the chair and pushes the body aside to give himself more room. The fire on the ramp doubles, devastating the guards’ advance. And singing—

“Baby! Shut the damn doors!”

Laser fire from the ramp. A moan. Dean moves to Kelvin, helping him drag Victor out of the line of fire. Kelvin, bleeding from one leg, allows Dean to take most of Victor’s weight until they can lie him down behind cover. They kneel beside Victor. Blood leaks out of him onto the metal floor. He writhes, coughing spasmodically.

“Jody!”

Jody appears at his side.

“Take Castiel’s position. Send him out here.”

Jody moves.

Dean glances toward Sam and Rainbow. The Ridani woman pauses to switch rifles, taking one from a dead guard. A burst of fire ricochets up from below until Sam changes his aim, covering both sides of the ramp until Rainbow sticks the muzzle of her new rifle into the shaft and starts shooting again.

Without a word, Castiel kneels beside Dean and starts to strip the suit from Victor with a small, red-handled knife.

“Do you need me?”

Castiel shakes his head.

The power goes out. Dean freezes in the act of standing, surprised, until Castiel switches on his helmet light and resumes his work in the otherwise black room.

Dean switches his light on and steps over corpses to reach Baby.

“Topside guns disabled?”

_Affirmative. Opening hangar doors. Auxiliary ventilation systems engaging—now._

A low whine signals their ignition.

“Now we wait for Abner.” Dean picks his way carefully around the command center, checking each body for signs of life. All are dead. He places five rifles by Sam and Rainbow and returns to Baby.

_Progress?_ he whistles, pulling the dead comm-officer off his console and seats himself in his place.

_All hangar doors open. All locks on all levels sealed shut._

Dean switches to the outside channels and toggles until he catches comms.

“This is Smith. We have control of the thirties’ main command center. Please acknowledge main strike.”

As if in reply, an explosion shakes the dome. In the silence of its aftermath, Dean can hear the fire of the mounted laser guns stutter and cease.

“Assault up the ramp’s stopped,” calls Sam, hidden from view by his emplacement.

“We did it,” Dean breaths.

“Strike acknow—”

A second explosion shudders through the dome. Jody fires a single burst from her gun.

“My cousin—” says Kelvin’s voice, strained with worry and physical hurt.

“He’ll live.” The auxiliary lights come up, casting an eerie glow on the litter of bodies and Castiel’s blue hair as he draws off the helmet and mask and lays a gentle hand on Victor’s motionless form. “But he’s going to lose his right arm. I’m sorry.”

Kelvin murmurs a phrase, solemn as a prayer. Dean shifts his foot, accidentally nudging the bloody head of the dead comm-officer. He moves to stand next to Sam, waiting until he sees Abner coming up the ramp, hair singed by laser fire but otherwise unhurt before asking Baby to reopen the doors.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean rescue Paisley and rediscover an acquaintance.
> 
> * * *

They let Abner’s soldiers take control of command central, waiting first in the hall below the center until level one is clear and then waiting in the extensive level one medical complex until the last of the guards surrender or die. Most surrender once they realize how thoroughly they’ve been breached. One squad of six manages to sneak out the way Dean and his people came in, but Drexel’s ten catch them soon enough.

Castiel quickly strips off his guard’s uniform and throws on a white medical jacket, going to work on casualties with a physician’s disregard for which side they were on. On level seven, the guards massacre two hundred prisoners before Abner’s people arrive, but otherwise most of the injuries come from Abner’s assault on the dome.

Kelvin sits by his cousin, who has been put on a stasis couch and, now unconscious, is entirely unaware of the discussion going on above him concerning his mangled arm.

Dean’s also takes off his guard’s uniform, due to the blood spattering it. He and Sam fall asleep, heads resting on Baby as she sings a quiet, soothing chorale.

It seems only minutes later when Abner wakes them up. “Level four’s clear,” Abner says. “We’re evacuating level two now, so if you want to find your friend before she gets lost on the transport ships, you’d better go now. All the prisoners are still locked in their cells. It shouldn’t be hard.”

Dean nods, pushing himself to his feet before reaching down and pulling Sam up. They, including Jody who has fallen in, take the Auxiliary B elevator down to level four. The broad tunnel is quiet, patrolled by pairs of white uniformed Jehanist rebels. Now and again a prisoner speaks or yells from one of the cells, but otherwise they remain silent.

They pass cell door after cell door, small entrances to small compartments.

“I was expecting something livelier than this,” Jody says in an undertone to Sam and Dean as they head for the C Block console that holds the register of names to cell numbers. “From what Victor said, I thought this’d be more like the SoHo District on Epping. Bars, stages and street tunes, dancing all hours.”

“They _are_ prisoners,” Sam replies.

The four soldiers at C Block are expecting them and show surprise only when Baby plugs into the console and quickly peruses the level four records.

“That’s strange,” Jody says, looking at the screen. “Most of the prisoners on level four are in six-bunk rooms, but your Paisley’s in this block of solitary cells.” She shrugs, but her mouth turns down with suspicion as Dean gets the manual key from the officer in charge.

“I hope it’s worth it,” Dean mutters to Sam, seeing the carnage of the command center as they reach the cell door and key in the ‘open’ sequence.

The door opens to reveal a small, shabby room, made pathetic by a tattered blanket in faded colors that’s hung to cover one grey wall. On the metal bed that doubles as a bench, seated on a thin pad of uncovered foam, Paisley stares, head bowed, at her clasped hands. Her hair, in its tight braids, still hangs to her waist and she wears the same dress Dean bought for her on Kansas Station, although its colors are now muted and it’s patched and threadbare in places from long and continuous use. The Ridani girl doesn’t lift her head until, reacting to the silence like it’s unusual, she looks up.

“Min Winchester!” Her face, pensive at rest, transforms with a brilliant smile, quickly shattered by despair. “Oh, they got you, too. I be sorry for that.”

“No, they didn’t get me—” Dean pauses, realizing that Jody stands behind him, still in her guard’s uniform, and Sam off to the side wouldn’t be visible from where Paisley sits. “This is Jody. She’s not a guard. Paisley, we’re here to free you.”

“Free me!” Paisley throws herself at Dean, falling to her knees at Dean’s feet. She bursts into tears.

Dean lets her cry for a while and then tugs her gently to her feet. “You’re coming with us now Paisley,” Dean tells her. “You’d better grab whatever belongs to you so we can go.”

Paisley recovers her composure with an obvious effort, swiping at her eyes with her knuckles. “If you hadn’t my kinnas already, min Winchester, sure be you’d have it now.” She glances up, and her expression clears. “Sure, and glory!” she exclaims. “It be min Baby.” She offers Baby a formal bow, to which the robot replies with a quick flurry of notes. “And min Winchester.” She spots Sam as he steps forward and she steps into his open arms for a long hug.

Dean coughs subtly and Paisley climbs up on the bed, yanking down the tattered blanket that hangs above it. She sits down cross legged in the middle of the cell, her back to the doorway and starts with deliberate movements to rip the blanket into shreds.

Dean glances at Sam and Jody, questioning, but the mercenary merely shrugs and Sam’s look tells him to give the girl a little time.

The blanket proves to be so worn that it takes little time for the Ridani girl to reduce it to strips, which she places with careful precision in the four corners of the room, chanting a strange, tuneless little song under her breath all the while. When she has only three strips left, she backs out of the cell, forcing Sam, Dean and Jody out into the corridor, leaving the last strips to mark her path.

She stops in the corridor and looks at Dean. “I be cleansing the room,” she says, “so that ya memory of it don’t bind me.”

“But don’t you have anything to take with you?” Sam asks.

“Didn’t bring ya nothing here, so be it I can’t take ya nothing away. It all be in ya pattern, you see?”

“Sure,” Dean says, an unconscious echo of Paisley’s speech. “I remember how that dress hung on you. At least they fed you well here.”

“Sure, and course they fed me. I be ya entertainment, bain’t I? Had to keep me looking ya swell, didna’ they?”

For the first time, Dean hears real bitterness in Paisley’s voice and, examining her more carefully now, he sees that the beautiful adolescent from Kansas Station has somehow matured in a way that has sharpened the edge of her beauty, like a knife with the pain of harsh experiences. Jody frowns, seeing something that she, too disapproves of.

“But what did you do all this time?” Dean asks.

“Dean,” Jody starts, warningly.

“Sure, and what did you think they do with ya handsome tattoos?” Paisley examines Dean like he’s sporting tattoos himself. “Forced us as ya fancy whores for ya guards as wanted to be slumming with dirty pleasure, and them prisoners as had ya special privileges.”

“Oh, Paisley.” The knowledge comes as such a truly unexpected shock to Dean that he can only mouth platitudes. “Oh, Paisley. I’m sorry. What did you do?”

Paisley shrugs. “I shut my eyes.”

Dean turns away, unable to reply.

“How old are you?” Jody asks gently.

Paisley considers both the question and the mercenary and eventually decides something in Jody’s favor. “I begun ya bleeding ya two years back, I reckon. Thereabouts. Ya Station time, that be. It be right at ya Festival time, too. That be glory good kinnas.”

“Fifteen, maybe,” Jody mutters and without thinking she puts a hand out to rest on Paisley’s shoulder.

Sam murmurs. “More than a year. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so awful.”

Paisley shrugs again, a wealth of fatalism in one small gesture. “Hadn’t much choice, had I? There be also ya rule, no hitting ya girls and they most of them followed it, so it weren’t so bad as it could have meant.” Her face brightens slightly. “And there be also ya Mule.”

“Mule?” Dean turns, caught both by the strange name and by the tone of Paisley’s voice.

“She be good to me. She be in ya tech division and her credit be so good, she could afford near anything, but she asked for me! Near half ya nights I be working.”

“Randy sod,” Jody says.

“Weren’t nothing like that!” Paisley cries pulling roughly away from Jody’s hand. “Sure, we sleeps together, but she got no—well, it were more cuddling, like. She be lonely, I reckon. Given what she be it were no surprise ya others shunned her, though they be ya Ridani and shunned themselves. It were mostly companionship. She taught me to play ya bissterlas. And she begun to teach me ‘bout ya tech workings. Sure, she be hot ifkin on ya math, and she learned me all ‘bout ya ‘bots and ya motors and…” Words fail her. In the glare of the corridor tubing she seems taller, older, scarcely adolescent at all, like the girl from Kansas Station who so blithely adopted Sam and Dean and tagged along behind them has emerged as a new self. “Everything! I be sure enough trained for ya tech job now.”

“Who is this woman?” Dean asks. “Where is she? Is she an officer here?”

“She be no woman. Nor ya officer. Ya prisoner like me. Ya Mule. That be what we called her. I don’t even know her real name.”

“No woman?” Jody asks. “Then what is she?”

“See for yourself,” Paisley answers. “If you kin get me out, sure you kin get her out, too.”

“Paisley,” Dean tells her. “All the prisoners are being freed. Why do we need to bring this person with us?”

Paisley purses her lips, looking stubborn. The dappling of her tattoos lend determination to her expression. “If that be so, why’d you come get me, if you trust ya new folk so sure? They be for freeing me, too, bain’t they? I reckon you fair have ya little trust in such folk as would have use for ya prisoners such as be put here. That be ya truth, don’t it?”

“Paisley,” Dean starts warning. Jody checks her wrist-comm.

“Well, it be ya truth,” Paisley continues recklessly. “I kin see ya meaning in ya talk that runs between ya prisoners here, and ya guards. They say Jehane hae come and if it be true, then I reckon either you hae no trust for him ‘cause he be ya Ridani, or 'cause you reckon he be not ya real Jehane.”

“I hope I’m not so prejudiced,” Dean mutters. “We have to go, Paisley. I can’t just adopt every stray who comes to my attention.”

“It be only fair.” Paisley looks pointedly at Dean. “She saved me ya much grief.”

Dean looks away, aware he’s being shamelessly manipulated on the altar of his own guilt. “All right,” he says, frowning at Jody’s expression as he capitulates. “Where’s your Mule? If she’s not boarded onto the transports yet, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Bleeding heart,” Jody says, but without any bite and ignoring Sam’s large smile as well. They head back to the level four guardroom and Dean directs Baby to plug into the console and track down this prisoner called the Mule.

Unfortunately, Baby quickly locates the Mule, by cross-referencing the name and auditing of the EntOps transaction books, in a solitary cell on level six, deep enough that one might suspect a prisoner of some worth or some sedition. Dean merely shakes his head.

“Jody, take Paisley and Baby up top. Pinto should’ve brought the shuttle in by now. Sam and I’ll fetch this Mule and Castiel then see what provisions Abner’s made for us in the fleet. We’ll meet you there and Paisley,” his tone turns stern, “no more strays.”

Paisley bows meekly and follows Jody without a word, although she immediately starts an animated conversation with Baby as they leave the guard block for the main elevator.

Sam and Dean bully their way past the officer in charge and take the Auxiliary C elevator down to level six. The Jehanist soldiers there don’t dispute their right, which they carefully link with frequent invocation of Abner’s name and authority, to remove one of the prisoners early.

As he leaves, Dean hears one whisper to the other: “Isn’t that the Comrade who led the strike force that opened the dome?”

Level six consists mostly of solitary cells and shaft openings. They track down the requisite cell and key it open with little difficulty.

When Dean finds himself for the second time on Hexham staring at a physical piece of their past it so unexpected that, like meeting Benny, he’s at first too stunned to react.

It’s impossible not to recognize and remember the Mule. The name itself brings illumination with it. On the plain metal bed of the cell, which is richly furnished with the addition of a terminal on the wall, sits the Sta who had been incarcerated in the cell beside Dean’s on Beaconsfield. The Sta who had questioned them about kata and shown interest in their befriending of an inconsequential Ridani girl.

But not a Sta and certainly not a woman. He—they—look up at them incurious and bored, or perhaps simply rendered fatalistic by the cruel blow fate had long since dealt it.

“Damn,” Sam breaths. Dean as astonished by this turn of events as his older brother.

“Do you remember me?” Dean asks carefully. “From Beaconsfield. My name’s Dean—Smith.”

The Mule regards them with an expression all too humanly sardonic on their Sta-ish face. “Ah, I thought it was Dean Winchester. I recollect you.” Their voice is a sibilant hiss, but not as fluid as a Sta’s. “The Ridani girl is your friend. As now she is, in a fashion, mine. But she’s an innocent child and naive to the ways of prejudice.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean answers, drawn to the reddish sheen—not skin, not scales—the lank mane that can’t crest, the muzzled face, protruding not quite far enough and most of all, resting on the terminal keys, the four fingers, one thumb human hands. “But I just can’t believe it. How can you even exist? It’s impossible.” Sam knocks an elbow into his back, but the question has already been asked.

“Clearly you have no understanding of humor and cruelty in the will of the cosmos. Of course it’s impossible that I exist. Therefore, I do.” The Sta-ish fluidity of the Mule’s voice can’t disguise the cutting sarcasm of their words.

“You must be lonely,” Sam says simply, feeling along with Dean the true horror of the Mule’s situation.

The Mule stands, unbowing to their full Sta-ish height, lifting their human hands from the terminal in a dismissive, angry gesture. “Spare me this. What do you want?”

“We and some people with us, came to Hexham to join Jehane and free Paisley. We have Paisley and she wants you to come with us.” Dean tells them.

“Jehane? The Ridani hero? Is there really a Jehane?”

“There’s a man who calls himself Jehane and he’s just liberated Hexham’s prisoners. He means to destroy the corrupt government on Central and institute a new government.”

“Uplifting sentiments.” The Mule considers them skeptically. “Why should I want to join Jehane?”

“I don’t know,” Dean replies. “Maybe you don’t. I have my own reasons and asking you to come with us is a favor we’re doing for Paisley. If you care to join us and especially if you have talents that we can use to bargain for a good place for us within Jehane’s forces, then you’re welcome. If not, then please just accompany us up and explain to Paisley yourself that you don’t want to come with us, because otherwise she’ll never let me rest.”

This speech reduces the Mule to silence, followed by a long, slow hiss that Dean recognizes after a moment as Sta-ish laughter. “Compared to the vistas of opportunity that’ve previously been brought before me, the word ‘welcome’ is,” they pause, “acceptable. Very well.” With deft fingers, the Mule dismantles the terminal and quickly packs a small duffel bag with sundry clothing and items stowed beneath the bed. “I will join you.”

“Thank you,” Sam smiles brightly. “But we can’t just call you ‘the Mule.’ You must have another name.”

“No. I was cast off the moment the nature of what I am was discovered.” Dean doesn’t school his expression quickly enough, for the Mule’s mane lifts slightly, in sad parody of a Sta’s glorious crest of rage. “Don’t pity me!” they hiss. “How I despise your pity, all of you who’re whole and blithe in wholeness.” They turn their back on Dean and repack the entire contents of the duffel bag before they turn around again.

“Let’s go,” Sam says quietly. They leave, but Dean is bitterly aware of the soldiers’ curious stares, of laughter behind hands, as they pass with their new companion. The Mule says nothing, showing no emotion, inured to such displays.

They walk into chaos on level one where medical personnel and patients are being ferried up in lots to the waiting transports. Dean finds Castiel at last beside the stasis couch that holds Victor, who is now without a right arm. White swaths his shoulder and chest. He’s unconscious, but Castiel speaks in a low voice to his cousin, Kelvin. Castiel’s white medical jacket is speckled with the familiar colors of human suffering.

Dean waits, impatiently checking his wrist-comm, until Castiel finishes and waves to a group of soldiers who wheel the couch out of the complex, Kelvin following. Dean watches as Castiel glances around the empty ward like he’s looking for something, until he stops on Dean.

He smiles.

Glancing at the Mule beside him, his eyes widen in surprise. The Mule makes a strange, strangled _tsshs_ with its tongue. Dean looks over to see them regarding Castiel with a similar surprise, but intent scrutiny. Abruptly, as if with common consent, they drop their gazes and Castiel walks smoothly over to them like nothing has interrupted his smile at Dean.

Cas kisses him chastely on one cheek and turns to his companion. “How do you do?” he asks urbanely. “You must be the Mule. I’m Castiel Seraphim.”

The Mule acknowledges him with a little hiss of Sta-ish laughter.

“We have to go,” Dean states. “Sam and I need to find out how we’re leaving the system and when we’re meeting Jehane.”

“Abner already told me,” Cas answers. “They want me on the hospital ship, so we’ll travel with them until the rendezvous point. I need to check the last ward before we go. Come with me?” He gestures toward an open door.

“Excuse us a moment,” Dean says to Sam and the Mule and leaves with Castiel. From the doorway of the ward, he watches Castiel move from couch to couch, adjusting tubing at one bed, massaging a leg at another, shaking his head over the motionless form at a third. At the end of his tour, he speaks for a long time with the technologist supervising the twelve patients. Then he returns to Dean.

“We’re leaving these. They’re all guards and too badly hurt to live through a window. Two technologists will stay to watch them. Central should send people in soon enough.”

Dean stares at him. His face has an impassive but intent expression as he speaks, considered and at ease. It is the same expression he’d used when he’d shot dead the two guards on level nine.

“I don’t understand you,” Dean speaks in a hushed voice. “How can you kill people with one hand and heal them with the other?”

Castiel blinks. “How can I not?” he asks, not understanding the question.

“How can it be so easy for you to take life and yet so important for you to save it?”

The passion of his question seems to give Castiel pause and, curiously, he glances past Dean towards the patient, waiting figure of the Mule at the opposite side of the empty ward. “‘Roses are planted where thorns grow,’” he says, “‘And on the barren heath sing the honey bees.’”

“I don’t understand you,” Dean repeats, his voice constrained now with weariness, but he turns and leads them to the elevators and up to the shuttle where the others are waiting for them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's small group has increased and now it's time to leave Hexham.
> 
> * * *

“I said no strays,” Dean says, looking first at Jody and then at Rainbow, who’s strapped herself in beside Paisley, evidently finding refuge in the fellow Ridani.

Jody shrugs, punctuating the gesture with an ostentatious sigh, but doesn’t answer.

“I reckoned my chances, all sides of ya pattern,” Rainbow speaks in a soft voice, “and I reckoned I be best off with you, min Smith, being if you’ll have me.” There’s no hint of pleading in her voice, just a calm statement of facts.

“Fuck. All right. I’m too tired for this. But you’re Jody’s, min Mills’ charge. Understood?” A nod. “Jody. She’s your responsibility.” Jody, too, nods but a tiny smile, only half-mocking, flitters over her lips. “Good. Now I’m going to take a nap until we dock at _Britannic_. Unless one of you has another surprise?”

Given the tone of his voice, no one volunteers any.

Dean sleeps until they’re slung into the vast cargo hold of the merchantman renamed _Britannic_ , staying awake only long enough to be assigned a four bunk cabin with Jody, Alex, Owen, Sam and Baby before going back to sleep.

If they pass through any windows, he neither wakes nor has any dreams strange enough to account for it. When he does wake up, he finds Cas asleep on the narrow bunk with him. Long intimacy has allowed him to find a way to fit in beside Dean without waking him, or even pushing him too close to the edge of the bunk. Dean shifts carefully, but Cas remains asleep. The cabin’s empty except for Baby. The robot floats unlit next to the ceiling. Dean lies quiet for a while on the thin foam pad and watches Cas.

His breathing has a slow, regular pulse that reminds Dean abruptly of a Greenville Campbell aunt’s astronomical studies. She was a crazy old woman, lodged in an orbiting science lab for so much of her life that visits to the closed vistas of Campbell House left her almost hysterical with claustrophobia, but she had once in her ramblings claimed to have discovered, or glimpsed for one all too brief hour, the pulse of the distant heart of the universe.

Cas smiles and opens his eyes, breaking the illusion.

“You slept through two meals,” he tells Dean, “and unless you’re quick you’ll miss this one.”

Dean sits up. “I’m starving. Where are we?”

“Some godforsaken backwater with only a Cirriath-occupied Station orbiting a white dwarf.”

“The rendezvous point,” Dean guesses and, standing up, he tugs at his clothing so it doesn’t look quite so slept in.

“Abner left a message,” Castiel goes on, watching his slightest movements with unnerving thoroughness. “You are to rendezvous with the _Endeavour_ at oh-eight-oh, fleet time.”

“ _Endeavour_. That’s Jehane’s ship?”

Castiel chuckles. “I wonder what he’ll come up with next,” he murmurs. “You’re to go alone.”

“I expected that.” Dean considers Baby thoughtfully and whistles. _You will remain here and let no one but our people enter this cabin. You can control the lock?_

_Affirmative, Dean. I will voice code it to your specifications._

“Good. Be cautious, Baby. You’re my…”

“Ace?” Castiel suggests.

Baby responds with a rippling arpeggio.

Dean merely rubs his face with his palms. “Fuck. Where’s the washing cubicle?”

“Down the hall.”

He gives a last tug at his sleeves. “What time it is? Where’s the mess? And everyone else?”

Cas swings off the low bunk and stands up. “In the mess. I told them I’d get you there by oh-six-thirty.”

Dean checks his wrist-comm and grins. “Bless the Void. I’ve time for a shower. Meet me there?” 

  


.oOo.

  


Jody has everyone at a long table in the far corner of the mess hall, isolated from the other diners by several empty tables. Dean has some trouble counting, however, as he comes up to the table. It’s almost full. Jody sits with Owen, Alex and Sam. On the other side of the table sit the brilliant Ridani contingent, Pinto, Paisley, and Rainbow, taking strength in numbers, with the Mule sitting stiffly beside Paisley. But there are two more—

“Benny! What’re you doing here?” With some surprise Dean greets his sister, Elizabeth. “I’m glad to see you got off okay. Your mother?”

Benny, looking mutinous, doesn’t reply immediately, but casts a pointed and hostile glance at the three Ridanis. “ _Sam_ said,” he spits, “that _they_ are meant to be here, but I can’t believe you’d have us sit down at table with tattoos.”

“Benny,” whispers Elizabeth, looking embarrassed.

Paisley regards Benny with interest, but Pinto and Rainbow have fixed stares of equal contempt on Benny’s angry face.

“Fuck.” Rather than sitting down, Dean leans his hands on the table and forces Benny to meet his gaze. “I never took you for a bigot, Benny. I thought you were above that.”

“It’s got nothing to do with bigotry,” Benny starts. “The fact is, it’s well known the kind of foul diseases—”

Pinto starts up out of his chair and grabs across the table for Benny’s shirt.

Benny jerks back, banging his chair on the chair behind him. “Is this another one of your lovers?” he asks sarcastically, out of range.

“Pinto, sit down,” Dean snaps. “Benny, shut up. Dammit.” He regards the two men with disgust, but after a few long moments during which the other diners in the cafeteria whisper and glance around and subside back to their meals, both men do as they’re told.

“Where’s Castiel?” Jody asks in a low voice before an uncomfortable silence grows.

“He’s supposed to be here.” Dean glances toward the door, then at Benny, who’s too busy glaring at Pinto to be aware of this exchange. “Keep an eye out for me.”

Jody nods quickly understanding and shifts her chair just enough to give her an even better view of the door.

“I don’t have much time,” Dean tells them, “so I’m going to make this short.” He pauses to survey the group, waiting until all of them watch him attentively, even Pinto, who nevertheless lapses at frequent intervals with quick, bitter glances at Benny.

Dean looks first to Elizabeth. “Your mother?” he repeats.

“She’s in ward four B—” Elizabeth starts.

“We came with her,” Benny interrupts. “We can’t go back to Kansas. You know that.”

“I know,” Dean replies, sighing, thinking for a moment the closed corridors of ships aren’t so different from the underground tunnels of Campbell House. “I don’t have much time,” he says again. “I think you all know that I’m going to meet with Jehane. To offer him our services,” he looks pointedly at Sam, “and the services of those of you who’re willing to throw your lot in with ours.”

The Mule hisses, a slight but penetrating sound. “And why should this Jehane, being so powerful, want your services as anything more than soldiers?”

“We have several things he wants and I mean to negotiate with those to get what we want.”

“Which is?” Jody asks.

Dean grins, a private understanding between him and Sam before turning to Jody. “I’m not sure yet. But I want to keep this group together, all of you who want to stay with us. You don’t have any obligation to us. You can join Jehane’s forces in any capacity you wish, or not. But if you do stay with us, you have to accept that I’ll use whatever talents you have as part of my bargaining and you have to accept whatever assignment I choose as best suited to our goal.”

He waits, but no one speaks. Pinto stares down at the geometric patterns decorating his hands and Dean guesses he’s thinking of his father, the way Senator Alastair had utterly rejected his once-loved son for the sin of being Ridani. From the corner of his eye he can see Sam looking at him and slightly shaking his head, the motion too subtle for anyone else to notice it.

“I’m not specifically a Jehanist,” Dean continues quietly, aware of Alex’s eyes going wide at the declaration. “I support his goals. We had the privilege of working with a woman named Athena, on Arcadia and I—we learned a great deal about selfless passion from her, about our rights and duties as citizens of the Riven. She made me understand that we need reforms in the government of Riven space. I want to see Athena in a position to bring those reforms to the people, because I know she will. That’s one reason I’m joining Jehane now. Because Athena _is_ a Jehanist and speaks for Jehane and his goals.”

He considers this a moment in silence. Paisley looks at him with rapt attention.

“I’m really not a reformer either,” Dean continues. “Whatever my personal feelings about Jehane or Athena or anyone who _does_ work for reform, I admire their zeal, but I can’t emulate it. So you need to understand this. The main reason we’re joining Jehane is to avenge our father.”

“But Dean—” Benny starts, while Elizabeth, who also knows the story of John Winchester, simply looks bewildered.

“Family doesn’t end with blood,” Dean says softly, but with finality. Benny subsides. Elizabeth still looks confused.

“Sure,” Paisley says. “Kinnas be ya bond as strong as ya family, if it be owed, like I owe to you. Ya man, he be ya one we meant to scam off ya spook ship, bain’t he, min Winchester?”

“It’s Smith now, Paisley. It wasn’t them. It was Central.” He stops, feeling a mask of stark anger and sorrow harden on his face.

“Well, Dean,” Jody speaks cheerfully into the silence. “You know I’m with you and Sam.”

“I am too,” Alex says beside her, so faint a voice that it’s almost lost in the harmonic buzz of the mess hall’s other conversations. Owen’s playing a mathematical game on the comm-screen brought along for him and has long since ceased paying attention to the adults’ discussion. Benny and Elizabeth have their heads bent together in a whispered conversation, so Dean shifts his gaze back to the Mule, who hisses in the affirmative, casting an ironic look at Paisley’s determined face.

“You know I be,” Paisley declares in a ringing voice, daring anyone else at the table to state their intentions with as much loyalty or boldness.

Sam smiles at her and Dean looks next at Rainbow, a little questioning.

“I said before,” she speaks. “And I meant it then, too.”

“Pinto?” Dean asks, pausing at the frown on his face. For the first time he realizes clearly that the inherent natural beauty of his face, and of Paisley’s as well, is cleverly and subtly enhanced by the patterns chosen for them at whatever early age such choices are made in the labyrinth of Ridani culture.

“You know I’ve got no choice,” he mutters. “You possess my kinnas. What else am I supposed to do?”

At the sound of his voice, Benny looks up, first at him, then at Dean. “Elizabeth and I both agree,” he starts slowly, “that we’d be best off with you. Mama too. We’ll just get lost in Jehane’s forces and probably separated as well. But you aren’t really going to mix—”

“Don’t wanna dirty your hands with us filthy tattoos, do you?” Pinto sneers. “Well, maybe you never considered that we don’t like mixing with _your kind_ any better—”

“You can’t talk to me like—”

“I can talk to _you_ anyway I damn well please. You don’t deserve—”

“Sit down!” Sam’s standing with his hands on the table. Since both men are sitting, the words have the desired effect of startling them into a brief silence. “Now listen. Keep your prejudices to yourself. That goes for both of you.”

“All of you.” Dean sweeps a quick glance around the table. Sam nods and sits back down. “Unlike Jehane, I don’t have any resources backing me up except my people and Baby. So you’ll show some damn respect for each other. Or you’ll be asked to leave. Is that understood?”

“Min Smith.” Unexpectedly, it’s Rainbow who speaks, tentatively but with growing firmness. “Be it you know about ya one, or be it you don’t.” She looks at the Mule. “We all knew, in ya thirties, ’bout what it be, and some had their say as it were ya perverted—” she pauses and by the set of her mouth Dean can tell in her own way she’s attempting to be compassionate, “—ya monster. Some said it be buying ya one Ridani girl’s favors for ya unnatural fashions.”

The Mule starts, with stately contempt, to rise. Paisley stares at Rainbow with astonished disgust.

“No, no, min,” hastens Rainbow. “Be it you misunderstand me. If all know, then there’s none to whisper.”

“I’ll thank you,” the Mule replies with fluid disdain, “to stay out of my affairs.”

Dean sees Benny and Elizabeth, even Jody and Pinto, staring at the Mule with dawning enlightenment, mingling with some revulsion and, in Alex’s case, pity.

“Damn my eyes,” Jody breaths. “I thought it was just one wild space tales, like the old ghost ship.”

“And now everyone knows.” Sam taps his hands impatiently on the table.

“Sure, and that be ya lowest run, sneaky way to tell folk—” Paisley glares hotly at Rainbow.

“Paisley.”

Paisley frowns, clenching her hands in her lap.

“Any other surprises? Or confessions?” Sam asks.

When no one speaks, Dean does. “Thank the Void. Now maybe I can eat before I go and meet Jehane.”

“What about the crazy—” starts Pinto with his usual caustic undertone. Responding instantly, Benny jumps to his feet with a gasp, just as Pinto says, “—doctor?” in a surprised voice at the sight of Benny losing all his color, staring at the mess door in terror.

Dean spins. Across twenty meters, he sees Cas stop in the door, his whole being fixing like a programmed seeker onto the paralyzed Benny. Some faint word escapes Benny’s lips. He’s so mesmerized by the sight of Castiel that he can’t even move to flee or to beg for help.

“Pinto, cover him,” Dean yells, already moving. “Sam, Jody, with me.”

Benny flings aside chairs as he throws himself towards the far wall, but to Dean the sound of their clattering fades to a dull counterpoint as his concentration narrows. He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Cas must not, cannot, reach Benny. That whatever he’d thought about Castiel’s rash words about inevitability and killing, he’d erred in believing them rash. Dean feels more than sees Sam and Jody circle out to close in on his sides. Castiel’s attention is riveted with such utter focus on Benny that he seems oblivious to the three people converging on him.

Jody reaches him first and since they’d all been forced to leave their weapons on the shuttle—security reasons—she tackles him.

If Jody hadn’t had the most ruthless hand-to-hand combat training available in the Riven, Cas would’ve thrown her off. Luckily, damaging Jody doesn’t seem to be his purpose. Castiel continues to stare at Benny, who has trapped himself in a corner and is frozen in terror even as his sister and the three Ridanis mass in front of him, trying to hide him from Castiel’s sight.

Jody drags Castiel to his knees, forcing him down, but even so he still moves forward. Dean simply runs straight into him and wraps his arms around him. Hugging Cas hard into his chest, as if suffocating him. Castiel pauses in his forward momentum, distracted by Dean’s presence. Sam moves in from the other side and replaces Jody, allowing her to stand guard over them.

Dean looks back over his shoulder, gesturing wildly with chin and eyes and Pinto grabs Benny by the arm, yanking him around the edge of the room and out another door. The others crowd along behind.

Castiel attempts to rise again, slowed partly by his restraints and partly by some new information registering in his mind. The sound of the door closing drifts across to them and he sinks back onto his knees.

There’s a long pause, like a moment of opportunity lost, or of the kind of transfer of information that interrupts a computer’s flow.

Everyone in the mess stares at them. The Mule, Alex and Owen pick their way pass overturned chairs and walk up to them just as Castiel starts to shake.

It isn’t even trembling in fear, or anger, or relief at danger passed by. As Jody said, it is like he’s in the grip of a palsy so debilitating that it takes both Dean and Sam to support him. His face seems shut down, emotionless, like he’s not here at all, though his eyes remain open. The tremors shake him for at least five minutes while Alex and the Mule, prompted in her case by compassion and in theirs by some unknown emotion, attempt with Jody to shield the scene from the sight of onlookers. Owen asks if Cas is sick and an officer in Jehanish whites approaches to offer to take him to one of the wards.

Dean shakes his head waving him off. At last the tremors subside and Castiel lays limp.

“What time is it, Sam? Shit, I have to go. Jody, have Pinto meet me at the shuttle. Sam, tell Benny to lock himself in his room. No, in the room with Baby and get Cas checked by a doctor.”

“I don’t think he’ll like that,” Sam comments.

“Damn what he likes,” Dean says fiercely. “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life. Jody, is this what happened before?”

“Yes, but the first time was worse.”

“I’ll carry him,” the Mule says unexpectedly.

“Thank you.” Dean studies the Mule with interest for a moment. “Can you stay with him?”

The Mule nods and reaches to transfer, with remarkable gentleness, Castiel’s unconscious figure from the grip of the two brothers into their own. Like any Sta, they’re obviously stronger than a human.

“Hells,” Dean mutters, watching Castiel’s limp form as the Mule carries him out. Simple jealousy doesn’t seem an adequate explanation for what he just witnessed. He straightens out his clothing, standing up. “Keep them in line, Jody. Just for as long as I’m gone. Sam, stay with Benny.”

Jody chuckles. “Look at it this way. At least it’ll never be dull.”

  


.oOo.

  


The _Endeavour_ proves to be one of Central’s own class 4 military cruisers, conscripted into Jehane’s service by ,unknown means.

Dean leaves Pinto on the shuttle, docked in the vast fighter squadron bay and meets a group of ten soldiers in white uniforms who escort him through the gleaming corridors of Jehane’s flagship to the upper decks. He’s forcibly reminded of Ellen and her ship, the _Roadhouse_ , although the utilitarian lines of the _Endeavour_ can scarcely measure up in competition.

They show him into a large plain office. A desk and single molded plastic chair sit in front of a wall screen, facing a single plush chair that looks out of place in the middle of the expanse of marble painted floor.

He sits in the plush chair and waits.

Enough time passes that he suspects the wait is meant to impress the extent of Jehane’s power over him. He does kata in his mind, concentrating, and is almost surprised by the opening door.

He stands up slowly in order to meet on the same level.

Jehane enters and pauses as the door closes behind him to examine Dean.

He doesn’t seem to have changed at all over the last year. The nondescript office gains sudden life with his entrance, like the space needed only his presence to illuminate it. His hair still shines like a vein of gold, dazzling and attractive. His eyes, richly green, bore into Dean’s as if with his eyes alone he can penetrate Dean’s innermost secrets.

He walks to the desk, lengthening his path by keeping to the wall, saying nothing, but all of his attention remains on Dean. The sheer weight of his charisma sinks over Dean, although this time he doesn’t feel the fear he felt the first time they’d met.

Jehane sits with grace and poise and lifts a hand. “Please,” his voice is gracious, “sit down, Dean Winchester.”

“Smith,” Dean says.

“Smith,” he agrees and Dean sits.

Jehane has the gift of being able to make a person feel like they are the most important person in his existence. Yet remain all the time aware of the room, the flashing play of the intercom, the slow circle of lights on the wall screen tracing star fields and solar systems like an echo of his vast concerns.

“You and your brother wish to join my cause,” he says at last. It’s neither a question nor a statement, but rather a reflection of some casual thought.

“Yes. Together, with eleven others who’ve asked me speak for them.”

“Eleven.” He muses over this figure. “Most of those who come to believe in my goals join me as common soldiers and earn a more intimate place in our revolution through effort, blood and loyalty.”

“Exactly,” Dean agrees. “But you’d be wasting me ‘n’ Sam in the army, in with the rest of the grunts.”

“Would I, indeed?” He considers Dean thoughtfully.

“Would I, indeed,” he repeats, no longer a question. “Are you prepared to give me the coordinates of your voyage here from the old worlds? From Terra?”

Dean’s startled into a brief laugh at this sally. “You don’t really want to confront the Terran League, do you?” he asks. “You can’t hope to defeat them in any military fashion, I don’t think. In any case, what reason would you have for rebelling against them?”

“Indeed,” he replies smoothly, “what need for our revolution if we’re reunited with our elders who’ll bring reform and unity to Riven space. You understand my need.”

“Yes, I do,” Dean answers, meaning it, “and you’re right.” He wonders what Castiel’s compatriots, Metatron and Dumah, would think of Central’s abuses. What would they, as law enforcement officials, report back to the League? Had they been faster, perhaps Bobby could’ve been saved. “The League wouldn’t condone Central’s government, I don’t think. But I don’t know the way back, or how long it runs, or how complicated the calculations are. I told you once before. I can’t help you with that.”

“Then what _do_ you propose to help me with?”

“I believe,” Dean speaks slowly, “that you already know.”

“I monitored with great interest the events on Hexham, the liberation of the 30s dig. I’m sure you’re aware that I’m not as militarily strong as Central. Not yet. Central’s aware of this, thus they’re only now beginning to see the true threat I pose to them.” He draws an index finger across the fine grain of the plastic desktop. “Therefore, I still rely on surprise, speed and subtlety for my victories, on the careful mining of what information I can glean. On the precise use of what forces I do command and on the constant recruitment of the oppressed and discontent who’ve good cause to rally to my aid. Thus—”

He pauses and Dean waits expectantly, even eager to hear him finish. Dean realizes he paused just to test the extent of his attention on him.

He smiles. For an instant Dean catches a glimpse of Alexander, a man who’s not so engrossed in leading a revolution that he can’t briefly be amused by the very tactics he uses to manipulate people and share that amusement with Dean, seeing that he recognizes them for what they are. Then the window vanishes, collapsing back into the gravity of the task at hand. “Thus I’m building a special force, trained in the more arcane disciplines. Espionage, saboteurs…” He trails off.

“Terrorists,” Dean finishes. “Yes, I know a bit about such disciplines.”

“But you must prove to me that your skills, your people, if you mean to carry so many with you, are equal to the task. That you’re indeed worth the effort to train and draw so close into our plans, be equal to the risk of using you in missions that must meet with success on the slimmest of odds.”

“Like the 30s dig.”

He shrugs. “Simple force isn’t always the most expedient method and many times will fail utterly despite the mastery of surprise.”

“Do you know that Sam and I worked with Athena on Arcadia?”

Now he pauses without obvious deliberation. He taps a few commands into a screen set into the desktop and calls up information that evidently satisfies him. “‘They executed a man they claimed is Athena but who is not,’” he quotes, reading from the screen. “I just received information from my best and fastest source that Athena was executed and that there’s rioting on Arcadia and martial law.”

“That information’s false. Well, not entirely. It’s true, but it wasn’t the real Athena, Dorothy Baum, who was executed. She’s still alive.”

“You sound certain.”

“I am certain.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he says with conviction. He taps more keys. “‘Six adults, one child, one robot.’ Yet now you tell me, eleven people will join with you and your brother.”

It’s Dean’s turn to shrug. “We gained six people, more or less accidently.”

“ _You_ gained?”

“No, Comrade Jehane,” Dean speaks with a diplomacy that, it occurs to him, he must’ve learned from the Saress. “ _You_ gained them. But some people feel safer in smaller groups.”

“Indeed.” The comment is utterly noncommittal, but even as the word dies in the still air, his entire posture changes, tensing. “How did you know you could find me at Hexham?” he asks coldly.

“What’s my assignment?”

He smiles again relaxing. “You wish to bargain. Very well. I know perfectly well you’ll be valuable to our cause, Dean Smith, and I’ve no current reason to distrust your motives or your zeal.” He lets the unspoken threat linger a moment, then goes on. “Those who betray the revolution are dealt with swiftly and without mercy. Those who give of themselves for the cause of reform are rewarded each day with the liberation of new recruits, of Stations yoked under Central’s bitter regime and they will be rewarded with the restoration of a government meant for all citizens.”

Dean smiles. “You sound like Athena.”

“No,” he says softly, not without menace, not without compassion. “Athena is _my_ voice. She speaks in the prison of Arcadia, where my voice most begs to be heard. How did you know you could find me at Hexham?”

Dean takes in a deep breath, steadying himself while he chooses his words. “I possess the distilled contents of Central’s entire Intelligence network, on data crystal.”

Jehane’s hissing breath, Sta-like, reveals for an instant that Dean has caught him completely by surprise.

“Central’s records of your movements were analyzed by the same expert who liberated the information from Central’s comm-net in the first place. The same man who was executed as Athena. That led me to Hexham.”

“His name will be a monument to our cause,” Jehane speaks with feeling. He stands up. “You’ll be under the command of Comrade Officer Abner.”

“Abner?”

“Officer Abner is in charge of the special forces, which were, when you met them, in the final stages of planning an assault on the 30s dig.”

The revelation catches Dean openmouthed. “Abner told me… You let me run the whole operation, risk it, when you intended to free the 30s dig all along!”

Jehane regards him without amusement or irony. “You wished to prove yourself and a test came to hand serendipitously. Comrade Officer Abner will assign you and your people an appropriate berth on one of the special forces ships. Abner’s own, I believe.”

Dean, sensing now is one of those times to remain silent, waits.

“But first,” Jehane places a single, precise finger on the intercom, “I will provide you with an escort to fetch this information you’ve brought me. After it is in my hands, you and your party will be released to Abner.”

Dean stands. The door slips open and without surprise he sees the remembered figure of Kuan-yin, looking brash and vehement and not at all merciful. Kuan-yin’s gaze is locked on Jehane, but at his gesture she marches her ten soldiers across to Dean, waiting behind them with the tense readiness of a chained predator. Her glance, raking Dean, holds promises of unspeakable pain should Dean not aid Jehane in every way she sees fit.

“For your protection,” Jehane tells Dean gently.

Dean looks at the ten soldiers and Kuan-yin. “Who’re you protecting me from?” he asks.

Jehane only smiles, softly apologetic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The _Britannic._
> 
> Sister ship to both the RMS Olympic and the RMS Titanic, the HMHS Britannic was meant to be (after post-Titanic design changes) the safest and most luxurious ocean liner of her time. However she was requisitioned by the admiralty to serve as a hospital ship during WW1. 
> 
> The _Endeavour_
> 
> HMS Endeavour, captained by James Cook. Commissioned to find _Terra Australis Incognita._


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for some people to talk.
> 
> * * *

“Shit.” Dean takes the glass of ambergloss Sam offers him and watches as his brother sits down with controlled grace on the chair next to him. “Pinto got into _another_ fight? That’s what? The eighth he’s been in, in the six months we’ve been on this boat? Abner’ll deny him Station leave now, no question. I don’t see why he can’t just learn to ignore the slurs like Rainbow does.”

“Or ask innocent questions that make the comments sound stupid, like Paisley?” Sam chuckles. “You have to remember, Dean, he’s not really used to it. He and Alex used to play together as kids. He was rich and privileged the same as we were and now he’s just any other tattoo. Maybe he feels it’s the only way he has left to distinguish himself.”

Dean sips his drink and studies the bar they’re sitting in with casual interest. Like all bars across the vast spectrum of human existence, this one’s poorly lit and noisy. The bitter scent of spilled ambergloss permeates the air and the floors aren’t swept, otherwise the place is uncluttered and totally without character. A standard station bar servicing merchantmen and soldiers. “I don’t think Abner’s going to be understanding.”

Sam shrugs. “It wasn’t Pinto who started the fight anyway. He got involved later. It was Paisley.”

“ _Paisley!_ ”

Sam grins. “We all went down there to watch Pinto play three-di and win a little money betting on him. There was a bissterlas table going in one corner, so the Mule sat down. At first the Sta already there refused to let him play, as usual, but two of them had to go on shift and Paisley was the only other person in the entire bar who knew the game. So she refused to play unless they let the Mule play too.” Sam shrugs. “You know how the Sta are about bissterlas. So they let the Mule in and damned if I’ve ever seen a faster calculator. I don’t think _Baby_ can run numbers as fast as the Mule did. Seriously Dean, the Mule’s the fastest calculator I’ve seen play bissterlas and I’ve been watching a lot of Sta play.”

Dean raises his eyebrows, skeptical but not disbelieving. “And?”

“And of course some Sta made a comment about perversions. It’s funny how humans make obscene jokes about Sta and humans having sex, because I think Sta think it’s far more disgusting than we do. It was a real insult. _’Your mother fucked out-species’_ , that kind of thing and Paisley jumped up and hit the Esstana right in the muzzle.” A gleam of amusement colors Sam’s eyes. “Used her training, too. Centered and focused. Knocked the honorable right out of her chair, ‘cause she wasn’t expecting it. Anyway, some greasy merchantman calls Paisley an ugly whore of a painted bastard and that set Pinto off.” A pause. “You know they’re sleeping together.”

Dean meets Sam’s speculative look with a shrug. “They’re Ridanis. If you believe everything that’s said about Ridanis, of course they’re sleeping together and with Rainbow too.”

“Frankly,” Sam replies, “it’s one rumor about Ridanis I’m starting to believe is true.” He grins at Dean’s expression. “Jealous, Dean?”

“What? About Pinto?” Dean sets down his glass with exasperation. “I’ll admit he’s a handsome face and a pleasing form. Countered of course by his hot temper, and unsympathetic disposition.” Dean chuckles bitterly. “Frankly, I’m having enough trouble arranging schedules so Cas and Benny are never in the same place at the same time. Not to mention assigning Baby to medical with Cas so she can monitor him all the time.” He glances at his wrist-comm, but its letters and numbers gleam a reassuring green on the tiny screen.

“I wonder,” Sam muses, “if that’s what the strange phrase ‘forbidden fruit’ refers to.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Where do you think? Cas and I were talking one day and well, you know the way we talk. It was more… not arguing, really, maybe debating is a better word. Anyway I don’t even remember what we were talking about.” He looks like he’s about to say something more, changes his mind and takes a swallow of ambergloss instead. The amber liquid sways smoothly in its glass as he sets it down again. “Dean—” Both his tone and expression betray his resolve to continue on the subject, no matter Dean’s preference.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“ _You_ don’t want to deal with it,” Sam retorts. “I think you keep hoping the problem will go away by itself. The strongest team breaks at the weakest link.”

“He’s _not_ a weak link! He’s a brilliant physician,” Dean defends Cas, then glances self-consciously around the bar, aware of the heat in his voice. He meets Sam’s eyes and smiles ruefully. “Maybe I’m the weak link for being afraid to let him go.”

“ _Let_ him go? To make him go. He won’t leave you. I don’t know how he’d react if you made him.” Sam looks really worried. “Like he did with Benny?”

“No.” Dean shakes his head, so sure on that point he can respond calmly. “He won’t hurt _me_.”

Sam considers this. “Are you afraid of him?” he asks softly.

Dean watches the still pool of his drink in his glass. “I don’t know,” he replies, scarcely audible. “Sam, is it,” he hesitates, “is it wrong to be attracted to that kind of wildness, that unpredictability?”

“Sweetens it, doesn’t it?” Jody says as she sits down on the other side of Dean. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I heard what you just said.” Sam flags the bartender and gets a glass of ambergloss poured for Jody.

“You remember Mendi Mun? The Immortal who got Alex and me pregnant and escaped Central with us, then squirreled off, leaving us to get off Arcadia ourselves? He had something in him, right at his heart—if he had a heart—you couldn’t quite get at.” She picks her glass up and drains half of it in a single swallow. “It made him more interesting. I sometimes think Alex would’ve gone with him, not me, if she could’ve. But she didn’t get the chance.”

“Oh, Jody. Surely not.”

Jody shrugs. “I’m not saying Alex doesn’t love me in her own way—” She stops, clearly unwilling to unburden herself further. “It’s not going to come to the test anyway. It’s just a thought a person has when she’s in bed alone on a cold night.”

“I’ve had my share of those.” Dean’s comment generates nothing further from Jody. “So what did the Mule do after Paisley knocked over the Sta?” Dean asks Sam, determined to change the subject.

Sam shifts in his chair, looking to include Jody in this neutral topic. “Kept playing, cool as you please, until Paisley got in over her head and then he rearranged a few people’s positions to stop her from getting badly hurt. Pinto and Rainbow were halfway across the bar by that time. A person couldn’t really sort out who was with 'em and who was against.”

“What were you doing all this time?” Jody asks, forcing a lightness to her tone.

“Letting them have their fun. When it started getting too rough I waded in and cleared things out.” Sam gets a cute grin on his face then that Dean recognizes from when they’d prank their cousins. “Even got the owner to thank me for it.” He adds, “I guess he didn’t realize I was with them, being as they’re all Ridani.”

Dean watches Jody consider this and smiles along with her. On top of the training he and Sam had received from Bobby, she has been training them as Immortals for the past six months. The thought of Sam taking on an entire room of brawling soldiers and drunks and subduing them was rather amusing to both of them.

“Interesting,” Dean says finally, “about the Mule. Defending Paisley. He never shows her any preference on ship.”

“But I bet she still sneaks into its cabin some nights,” Jody comments.

Dean grimaces. “You need to pick a pronoun for the Mule. Calling him ‘It’ is disrespectful.”

Jody raises her glass, tips and turns it so the amber liquid catches the light. “You and Sam call it a he. Paisley uses she.”

“I asked him about that. He thinks Dean and I use ‘he’ because we’re guys and Paisley uses ‘she’ because she’s a girl,” Sam says. “He doesn’t care either way, in his words ‘he and she are Human Standard constructs’.” At Jody and Dean’s looks, Sam continues. “We call Esstana ‘she’ and Esstavi, ‘he’ only because Esstana carry to term. Like, Cirriath have five genders but because all five can sire and carry young, we can’t fit them into he and she, so we use their own designations. Xa, Xe, Xi, Xo and Xu.”

“So what you’re saying is it—” Dean interrupts Jody with a low pitched growl, “—he doesn’t care because he’s not a he—or a she?” Jody finishes quickly.

“Sort of, it’s more complex than that. Sta don’t care if we call them he or she. They don’t see themselves as either male or female, they’re Esstavi or Esstana. The Mule said it was a language thing,” Sam continues his explanation. “We think of Esstavi and Esstana as honorifics, while in their own language they’re more like pronouns, which Sta don’t have at all. So you could call an Esstana a he and she wouldn’t care, as long as you’d addressed her as Esstana.” 

“And the Mule?” Dean asks. 

“The Mule isn’t either an Esstavi or an Esstana, so don’t use either of those,” Sam warns. “What he doesn’t like is being called ‘it’.”

They consider the Mule’s fate in companionable silence while music and images blare from the vid screen that backs the bar. “I wonder what it’s like,” Jody says slowly, “to be so cynical about life and so very alone?”

A new swell of white uniformed soldiers filter in to sit at tables and counters around the big room. “Shift change.” Jody checks her wrist-comm. “I’d better go. I’ve got a class to teach.”

Sam and Dean also stand, but Jody stops when Dean pauses, hand still on his glass. “It’s hard to believe we’ve been with Abner almost half an Arcadian year. I can’t decide whether the time has gone fast, or slow.”

“I can’t decide what in hell Jehane thinks he’s up to,” Sam replies. “A great initiative at Hexham and now he’s retreated back to Tottenham and sent half his fleet into these hell-forsaken backwaters to achieve Void knows what. All I can say is this sad excuse for a Station is aptly named Bedlam.”

“Training?” Dean suggests, swallowing the last of the ambergloss. “He’s got all those new people from Hexham to integrate in his forces. It takes time and there was a lot of information from Baby to incorporate and sort through—most of Central’s Intelligence files.”

“You’ve been talking to Abner.”

“No,” Dean admits. “I’m guessing and I watch Jehane’s addresses now and then.”

“Better you than me,” Jody tells him. “After my time as an Immortal, where we had to stand through any number of boring speeches made by Senators who love the sound of their own voices, addresses are one thing I refuse to attend or listen to over the vids. It’s the one thing Castiel and I agree on.”

Dean chuckles. “Well, speeches rarely give away important strategic or tactical information anyway. I don’t know. There’s some government garrisons and pockets of Central loyalists out here that still need to be won over, or suppressed. I can’t complain about my duties. Besides the couple of hand-to-hand classes I teach, I spend most of my time learning the ship and how it is run, classes with you and ones on tactics and strategy, and—you know.”

“Does ‘you know’ include running a few obscure training missions for Abner?” Jody asks. “Except for that little mop up at Bexhill, which can hardly be described as a battle, you’re the only one of us who’s seen any action since Hexham that I know of.”

Dean shrugs. “Abner only had Baby and I run two intelligence gathering missions. That doesn’t really qualify as action, although it’s nice to get off the ship, and you know they only picked me because of Baby’s abilities.”

“They picked you because they mean to turn you into an officer and they’re putting you through your paces.” Sam smiles at Dean’s look of distaste. “Us simple Comrades just get drill, no matter what our abilities.”

“Or do the drilling,” Dean grimaces. “I’ve seen you take your classes through their paces Sam and believe me, I feel sorry for them.”

“Necessity,” Jody replies. “I really do have to go. Walk me back?”

“Sure,” Sam agrees, then looks at Dean questioningly.

“Nah, I think I’m going to walk around the hub. Stretch my legs in corridors I haven’t walked down a thousand times or more.”

Sam and Jody leave together.

Dean wanders along the shop fronts that line the broad hub of Station. He still hasn’t grown used to the perspective in the huge orbiting Stations that serve as anchors for the great web of the Highroad that spreads out through Riven space, windows of passage from system to system. Partly it’s the physical oddities. The curve, the constant view of changing stars in the port domes and the feeling he often gets in the smaller Stations of unending movement—rotation, orbit, the shift of the solar system itself in space.

The tiny fleet under Abner’s command only docks in systems with no landfall and no planetary colonizations. Just solitary stations, necessary for calculating the shifting vectors of the road correctly. In these places Dean feels uprooted.

Born and bred on a planet, however inhospitable, he’s used to a home, a center, a place with its own being and purpose. Here, besides the Ridanis and station-hoppers marooned by poverty, the Cirriath living their own strange lives in the low-gravity hubs and the occasional merchant or shop-keeping family building their trade, the only purpose of a Station is to move its visitors onward, to cast them through a window to another world. Bleak, indeed, for souls stranded in such a place.

As he walks slowly along the line of shops, not really examining what is, in fact, a fairly mediocre selection of goods for sale, he considers these past months not sure what destination they’re heading towards.

He pauses to examine a necklace that, if unstrung, could provide new beads for Paisley to braid her hair. Jehane’s service doesn’t pay well, although it does provide room and board and Dean spends so little credit on himself that he always has something to spend on his companions.

“Definitely not your color,” Castiel says from so close behind him that Dean only manages not to drop the necklace, balanced across his palms, by accidently catching it around one finger as he startles.

“Dammit Cas, I’m going to put a bell on you,” he mutters as he turns. “I thought I’d buy it for Paisley,” Dean tells him.

He shakes his head. “Definitely not her, either. Look at that pattern. Paisley is a… a paisley, after all. This is too geometric. It’d work better for Pinto, although Rainbow might—”

“Cas, these beads are so small no one can tell the difference.”

He raises a hand in a gesture to forestall and correct. “I can and so will Paisley.”

The Ridani shopkeeper, perceiving a serious customer, moves forward, discreetly available, as Castiel starts to examine the rack of necklaces.

Dean smiles, watching him. Like all of Jehane’s people, he wears white, but his are the medical whites universal to his profession. Shirt, long coat and loose trousers rather than the close fitting jacket and slim legged trousers of the military uniforms. On Kansas, white has never been fashionable, impractical on a mining planet. But in the gleaming sterility of space, white proves dazzling and monotonous by turns. After half a year in Jehane’s rebellion, Dean’s concluded it is mostly monotonous.

But Castiel? Cas somehow manages in his baggy medical whites to stand out. Perhaps it’s his posture, or the thick muscular lines of his body, but he wears it without any hint of self-consciousness and with his eyes and hair it’s easy to spot people slowing as they walk past. It’s not just that the near black color is fading to blue, it’s the roots are blue as well.

His smile sharpens to a frown as he holds up a necklace and examines it with the eye of a connoisseur. He offers Dean the necklace for his consideration and smiles at his expression. “This one will suit Paisley,” he murmurs.

Dean gives the necklace a cursory glance and hands it to the shopkeeper. “I’ll take it.”

Castiel laughs. “The only saving grace to your complete lack of style, Dean my love, is that you are one of the few people who looks stunning in the unadorned lines of Jehane’s uniforms.” He considers. “Jody looks good as well, but that comes mostly from her magnificent physique.”

“But I like uniforms,” Dean teases. “It means I don’t have to decide what to wear in the mornings.”

“Utilitarian to the core,” Castiel plays along. “There must be a Bentham in your ancestry somewhere.”

Dean’s long since learned to ignore his comments that make no apparent sense, so he calmly pays for the necklace and turns down the corridor to continue browsing along the rest of the shops.

Castiel follows him. Dean feels him following, not without pleasure and he wonders if Sam’s right. If Castiel’s instability around Benny does indeed make him a weak link in their team.

“Wait a minute.” Dean stops between shop awnings. “Where’s Baby?”

“Analyzing blood samples in the lab,” Castiel answers casually, moving ahead to run his hands over a hanging row of scarves with real pleasure, like the textures alone are a delight to him. His hands have a way of moving that awakens memories in Dean of other times, alone with Cas and how his hands move over Dean’s body. He frowns. “We seem to have picked up a mild venereal disease at the Mother forsaken hellhole of a Station so ironically named Kensington and it’s spreading through the Ridanis like wildfire.”

“Cas,” he starts, disapproving the bluntness of his comment almost as much as the realization that without Baby monitoring him, Benny is left unguarded.

“Get him transferred to another ship, Dean,” Castiel interrupts in a sharp voice. “Do you have any idea of the effort it takes me _not_ to seek him out? Not to track him down to whatever cabin you’ve hidden him in? Or the bridge when he’s on duty?” He’s still examining the scarves and his low voice carries no farther than Dean. “ _Lady Penrhyn_ isn’t that big a ship.”

“Big enough. Benny and Elizabeth are lost enough as it is, especially now that their mother transferred—at Jehane’s own request, I remind you—to the _Endeavour_ to run his personal Portmaster division. I’d no idea she’d turn into such an ardent Jehanist. I’m not going to abandon them now. Why do you have to kill him, Cas?” Dean asks. “ _Why is your hair growing in blue?_ ”

Cas doesn’t reply, only steps back from the display of scarves to look at Dean, smiling. His smiles always disarm Dean. Something Dean suspects that he knows all too well. It’s times like this that he most hates it when Cas looks at him this way, because he loves it.

Of course he’s a brilliant physician. But Dean won’t force him to leave because he doesn’t want to be without him. Even if it means risking Benny. Disgusted and exasperated, more with himself than with Cas, Dean turns to find a mirror, staring at his reflection.

“Someday, Cas,” he says to the mirror, fixing his eyes on Castiel’s reflection behind him, “you ought to consider trusting me.”

“Because blue is its natural color,” he replies without expression.

“You’re not used to trusting people, are you?” Dean turns, struck by this sudden illumination, but Castiel remains remote from him.

“Should I be?” he asks bitterly. “My mother abandoned me when I was eleven. My father’s family disowned me when I was seventeen.”

“What about your father?” Dean asks quietly.

“He died before I was born,” he replies with an irony so deep that Dean knows there’s a wealth of unspoken information in those simple words.

“How could your mother just abandon you?”

“An unfortunate choice of words, perhaps. She did what she had to do. I no longer blame her for it.”

Abruptly Dean wants very much to reassure Cas that he, at least, will not abandon him so callously. “Come on,” he says softly, brushing his arm with one hand, feeling his muscles respond, anticipatory, as Dean lets his touch linger. “Let’s go back to the ship.”

As they leave the shops Castiel turns away from the direction that would lead them back to their berth. It occurs to Dean that he’s avoiding the intimacy that in Castiel’s present mood might tempt him to reveal too much.

“Cas,” he starts, using the distraction of musical instruments in the next shop as an excuse to continue speaking, “I know that technology in the League is far advanced of what we have here in the Riven, or that it ought to be by now, since we’ve been cut off for so long. Just look at Baby. She must’ve been marooned here when the original Highroad Fleet came in. I know, although I still find it difficult to believe, that Master Smith was far, far older than he looked—than any age extension technology we possess here—and that you are, too—”

“Once the Miescher Formula was discovered,” Cas interrupts as if at random, “it really proved quite simple, but the actual manufacture is not so easy, especially with the laboratory conditions prevailing here. Quite primitive.”

“What’s the—never mind. Don’t distract me. Cas, there must’ve been someone besides your family in all that time that you loved.” Dean hesitates, aware of an ember of jealousy within himself that he doesn’t want to examine. “A woman.”

He stops in the shadowy corner of an awning and pulls Dean close facing him, hands on his shoulders. “Do you want the truth? There were two women, Dean. One was murdered by a man who thought he could save his own life by killing her. I saw her die. The other—” he pauses “—was killed in the Betaos engagement against the Kapellans. I saw her die, too. But I didn’t love them in any sense that you mean the word. I had my Comrades in arms, in the fight we terrorists led for the League against the Kapellan Empire. We were close because we had to be, in such circumstances, in such work, but we could lose a friend to death at any moment during those years. We knew the risk. It made the experience, and the attachments, more intense.”

“No one you loved?”

His face takes on an expression almost inhuman in its detachment, but his voice shakes. “Many years ago I had a friend whom I loved, like a brother. What a terrible, trite phrase that is… The worse for being true.”

“What happened to him? Was he one of the League’s saboteurs? Did he die?”

Castiel smiles cynically. “I murdered him, Dean.”

“Why?” His voice is scarcely more than a whisper.

“Because he slept with my—” he hesitates, searching for a word.

“Your lover?”

“Yes.” He shuts his eyes. Dean can barely hear his voice.

“But if he knew that she was your lover…”

“He didn’t know. She seduced him, because she didn’t believe me when I told her I would _have_ to kill any man she slept with. So she chose him. She wanted to know that she had that power over me.”

The soft conversations of other shoppers flow past them, rippling around their silence.

“I think it amused her that I couldn’t reject her, not even after that,” he continues, his voice growing more detached as he speaks, like the memory is too awful to attach emotion to it. “But I was glad when she was killed on Betaos.”

In the silence following this remark, the shopkeeper approaches, looking apprehensive, and after a moment retreats again.

Too shocked to speak, Dean very carefully doesn’t move from underneath Cas’ hands, but with deliberation he removes them himself and turns to examine with feigned interest a row of whistle pipes in the shop.

“I trust _you_ , Dean,” Cas murmurs, “and someday we’re both going to wish that I didn’t.” Cas says something else, fluid as a prayer, under his breath, in a language Dean doesn’t recognize.

Because Dean can’t decide whether Castiel’s unqualified statement of trust is a blessing or a curse, he starts walking again, like movement alone can dispel his troubles or at least hold them at bay.

Is he any better than that woman, willing to risk Benny? Doing everything he can think of to protect him, yes. But it still puts Benny’s life at risk. Dean doesn’t know what to say to himself, let alone think of what to say to Cas. He’s afraid to ask any more questions, because they might reveal the selfishness of his own motives too clearly. Had he really thought he could manage Castiel so easily? Obviously, Dean’s first duty when he returns to the ship must be to request that Benny be transferred—anywhere.

Castiel follows Dean, walking a step behind and to the side of him in silence. Dean simply walks and for the first time he _really_ wonders what Bobby had known about Castiel’s background that caused him to oppose Castiel’s interest in him so strenuously, yet be so accepting once he knew with certainty they were lovers. Having been one of the League’s saboteurs as well, what more had he needed to know?

“Dean! Castiel!”

The hail interrupts Dean’s thoughts so thoroughly that it takes him a moment to recall where they are. He sees Victor and Kelvin sitting at a cafe table under a striped awning that juts out into the hub corridor. Victor motions them over with a glittering wave and, as he and Cas approach the table, Dean realizes Victor has gained an artificial arm since he last saw the man unconscious and injured on Hexham.

Victor grins and lifts the arm up for him and Castiel to admire. It’s metal and plastic and stiff jointed, with a three-pronged hook apparatus where a hand should be.

Castiel frowns and reaches out to examine it more closely. Victor looks on with pride as Castiel slides a hand up to tickle the straps and down again to test the hook mechanism.

“I thought I’d be left with one arm or with a simple prosthetic,” Victor grins, “but Jehane values his people too highly to leave it at that. I just got back from Whitechapel itself. The best surgical and rehab center worked on me and then at my request I got reassigned back to my original unit.”

Kelvin, who Dean has met on and off during the past months in the corridors of _Lady Penrhyn_ , grins at his cousin and orders two cups of aris for the new arrivals.

“In celebration,” Victor says. “Please sit down.”

Dean and Cas sit, but not before Dean catches Castiel’s sharp whisper. “Mother bless us, is that primitive thing the best they can do here?”

However, he dutifully admires the artificial arm and watches Victor demonstrate its uses. Awkward writing, picking up both cup and glass, manipulating wire and string and even his pistol—which he asks Kelvin to unload first for the demonstration.

“So you were with Abner’s unit to begin with,” Dean says once they’ve settled in to drink their aris.

“Yes,” Victor smiles, softly amused. “Did you discover Abner had planned all along on Hexham to liberate the 30s?”

Dean considers him thoughtfully. “I’ve thought a lot recently about how easy it was to manipulate me. I suppose I deserved it for being so sure I was manipulating Jehane.” He frowns. “I won’t underestimate him again.”

Kelvin chuckles.

“No,” Victor replies. “It doesn’t do to underestimate Comrade Jehane. How’d you find out?”

“Jehane told me. He thought it serendipitous that a test came to hand so easily. I’ve never felt so humbled in my life. Well, at least not recently.”

Victor smiles. “Well, I’m sorry you were misled, but you did do a rather good job.”

“You were in on it?” Dean laughs. “I admit it was brave of you to volunteer to come with us.”

“Thank you.” Victor uses his artificial arm to reload his pistol and slips it back in its sling. “Although as much as Kelvin and I’d like to take credit for unselfish courage, I should disclose that we had a back-up plan in case yours went wrong.”

“Shit,” Dean raises his cup. “I hope I didn’t make a fool of myself.”

Under the table, Castiel grips Dean’s thigh reassuringly.

“Not at all,” Kelvin answers. “Why do you think you’re with Abner?”

“And training well, I hear,” Victor adds.

“It’s more than I hear,” Dean retorts. “But I do like getting to know the ship and the various specialties in our line of work. How did you two get into Abner’s unit in the first place?”

Victor shrugs. The glare of Station lighting accentuates the fine white scars on his face and arms. “We’ve worked in dangerous conditions before. Cable stripping requires cool calm and the ability to not hesitate or flinch.”

“Exactly the right qualities for a good saboteur,” Castiel agrees.

“Or a good doctor,” Victor returns, examining Castiel with interest. “How’d you get your hair colored blue at the roots like that?”

“It’s its natural color,” Castiel answers innocently and he smiles as Victor and Kelvin laugh at his humor. “I hope,” Castiel continues smoothly, “that you’ll let me look at that arm more closely. Perhaps I can come up with some ideas for modifications and if we can find a clever mechanic—”

All four of their wrist-comms light up at the same time, followed by a single blended aural alarm, brief but penetrating. “All personnel, report to your stations. Repeat, all—”

Dean, Victor, and Kelvin slap the ‘received’ command and jump to their feet immediately, leaving Castiel relaxing in his chair as the message, softened to one-quarter its previous volume, goes on.

“—personnel, report to your stations. Unidentified ship in system and approaching with evasive maneuvers. Repeat—”

Now Castiel stands, tapping his comm to silence. Through the hub district, white clad soldiers flood in groups of twos and threes toward the docking sector. Jehane’s people hurrying back.

“Action at last,” Victor booms with relish.

Dean’s excitement is tempered with uncertainty. “I think I’d rather meet face to face than locked away in a ship,” he says. He lengthens his stride as Castiel breaks into an easy lope.

Castiel’s expression remains neutral. “In the long run, it makes very little difference. In the short…” his smile turns predatory, “in the short, you’re better off face to face.”

At the berth itself, one of Abner’s lieutenants meets them personally. “Commander wants you on the bridge,” he says, motioning them to follow. Victor and Kelvin watch this summons with curiosity. When Castiel turns to head for medical, the officer gestures at him. “You too Comrade Seraphim,” he adds, shrugging to show that he’s only the messenger and can’t explain this cryptic summons.

The owner of the _Lady Penrhyn_ was a prosperous merchantman who’d converted to the cause and even with the obtrusive addition of a large weapons bank in one corner, the bridge is spacious and well appointed.

Abner doesn’t look up as Dean and Castiel enter, but speaks immediately after the bridge door shuts behind them. “We have the initial specs on this ship. It’s _not_ a Central military vessel of any design we know and we’ve received one cryptic message over comm. Meanwhile they continue to approach with clear evasive tactics. What do you make of this?” He reads off the screen on the arm of the captain’s chair. “‘There will be advantage in every movement which shall be undertaken.’”

Castiel laughs. “Where Ellen leads, the rest are soon to follow. You’ve bagged yourself a pirate, Comrade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The _Lady Penrhyn_
> 
> The _Lady Penrhyn_ was one of six convict transport ships in the First Fleet. She carried 101 female convicts and brought the first horses to Australia. A stallion, a colt, three mares, and two fillies from Cape Town, South Africa.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Location names.
> 
> It seems relevant at this point to talk about the location names used in _Long Road Home_. Nearly every planet, city and suburb has been named after a town or suburb in Australia, or sometimes New Zealand, that were originally named for locations in the UK. There are some notable exceptions of course, like Kansas for obvious reasons. Also Arcadia is from the original work.
> 
> When I needed a planet known for it's medical care I ignored my naming convention and looked up the location of the Royal London Hospital, which is in Whitechapel. Given that most people probably know Whitechapel as the home of the Jack the Ripper murders, I thought about looking for something else. But then given Cas' react to Victor's work, I thought Whitechapel was appropriate.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel plays the game.
> 
> * * *

“Comrade Officer Abner.” The soldier at comm tilts his head back to catch a glimpse of his captain. “We’ve run the intruder’s specs through all of our data bases and we don’t have a vessel answering the description we have here.”

Abner examines Dean and Castiel with a keen eye. “Now. The dossier on you two, transferred to me from Jehane’s files, suggests that you might know something about an unusual sighting like this.” He pauses, obviously waiting for their reaction.

Castiel runs one hand through his hair. “Give me an open line on comm and I’ll guarantee they’ll consider you as neutral for the time being.”

Abner shrugs and waves at the man on comm. “I don’t need trouble yet. Go ahead, but remember, it’s on your head.”

“Isn’t it always?” Castiel mutters as he walks forward to lean with apparent careless ease on the board.

Dean watches as a composite of the sensor’s description of the unidentified ship takes shape on the screen. It doesn’t have the massive, graceful bulk of _Harvelle’s Roadhouse_ , but Dean recognizes the lines of superior technology and doesn’t doubt this ship followed Ellen over the lost way from League space to Riven space. For what purpose, he can’t imagine.

After the man at comm opens a clear line, Castiel speaks. “‘It will be advantageous even to cross the great stream.’”

Abner lifts dark eyebrows in surprise and turns to face Dean like he can answer his question.

“I don’t know,” he says quickly, although the strangeness of the exchange reminds him eerily of Bobby’s initial exchange with the _Roadhouse_.

The unknown ship has clearly been waiting for some such reply because after briefest pause a voice sounds over comm, smooth and strong as silk.

“Indeed, we hope we are successful in our enterprise and overcome our greatest difficulties.” Humor permeates the speaker’s tone.

“Unfortunately,” Castiel replies, evidently enjoying himself, “I don’t possess ten pairs of tortoise shells, although I can’t imagine what you would do with them anyway.”

A pause, as the message relays back, but now the voice returns with a sharp tone. “Who is this?”

Castiel straightens and steps back from the console, gesturing to Abner.

“I’m Comrade Officer Abner,” he answers, “Commander of the _Lady Penrhyn_ and her attendant vessels in the Second Auxiliary Fleet of Alexander Jehane’s Provisional Armed Forces. I request that you identify yourself and state your purpose in entering—without clearance—territory controlled by the PAF.”

“No,” the voice says. “The man who spoke first.” A pause. “Send him over.”

Abner frowns. “I repeat, please identify yourself and state your purpose.”

“I am Dagon.” The sheer arrogance of her tone carries easily over the comm. “And I am not interested in this local squabble over territorial and governing rights that you’re engaged in. Heavens, Commander, there’s so little of interest in this gods forsaken corner of space that you can’t seriously believe that _I_ entertain any notion of conquest or plunder.”

The sally leaves Abner speechless, caught between shock and indignation.

“No.” The voice of Dagon pauses, reflective, on the syllable. “I’m merely engaged, on behalf of one of my employees, on a hunt.”

Castiel stiffens. His reaction is so pointed that, although he quickly controls himself, forcing himself to relax, most of the crew on the bridge now stare at him.

“Well?” Abner asks in a low, tense voice. “Shall I send you over, Comrade Seraphim? Can you guarantee this pirate is fully capable of defending her insolent tone?”

“Fully able,” Cas answers softly. Castiel’s taken the time to avail himself to whatever methods he can find to maintain his golden tan, but now Dean watches him go pale. He rests a hand on the console, steadying himself. “It’s better I go over than you test her strength.”

“I have six ships to her one,” Abner states, “and three are advantageously deployed even as we speak.”

“That cuts down on her advantage, certainly.” Castiel’s expression clears as he controls himself, somehow erasing that initial reaction entirely from his face and posture.

Abner curses in a low voice, jabbing out some command onto the keys of the screen on the chair’s arm. “Very well. I’ll send an escort with you. Comrade Smith.” Dean salutes. “Take your robot, record as much information as possible. I want every possible detail of that ship. I’ll send a ten with you.”

“Leave Dagon alone,” Castiel speaks in a quiet voice that brooks no disagreement. “She’s been a privateer for longer than you’ve been alive, Comrade Abner, and even if that weren’t true, she’s called out on a hunt. Don’t even attempt to get between a hound and its quarry.”

  


.oOo.

  


In the end, Abner’s one concession is to only send Victor and Kelvin rather than a full ten. They sit at the front of the shuttle behind the pilot and comm, people Dean does not recognize.

“All right,” Dean says as he and Castiel buckle themselves into the rear of the shuttle. “You wouldn’t tell Abner. For a second there I thought you’d be arrested for insubordination. What about me? What’s a hound and a hunt?”

“No.” Castiel doesn’t even look at him. “Don’t talk to me now, Dean.” His face bears a set expression that disturbs Dean far more than his flat tone of voice.

Dean remains silent for the rest of the brief flight across, wishing he could see the great ship they approach and increasingly troubled by the frequency with which Castiel reaches up to touch his hair. It seems to him a gesture either superstitious or self-conscious and Dean’s not sure which explanation makes him more nervous.

Baby floats behind Dean as they wait in the lock after the shuttle docks, nudging up against his back.

The lock opens onto the ship revealing a party of ten men and women clad in dullest grey. This escort shows them courteously but without smiles up a series of corridors to the bridge elevator. Compared to Ellen’s ship, this vessel has no color at all, although in many places Dean thinks he sees some sort of texture ridging at shoulder height, panels as much tactile as luminescent. The ten guards leave them to ride the elevator alone, a journey horizontal and diagonal as well as vertical. When the doors open, Kelvin gasps.

The bridge is huge.

Dean can’t hear the speech of the figures at the opposite end. Only a slight undertone in the air suggests to him that they’re indeed speaking. At intervals along the expanse of wall, separate stations have been built, peopled now by a few individuals whose uniforms are black. It strikes him then that everything on this ship is white, gray or black, lacking color entirely. Without stronger contrasts it’s hard to measure the distance between them and the far wall, but Dean guesses it to be some hundred meters.

He leans close to Castiel. “Why would someone build a bridge so big?” he whispers. “The captain can’t even see who we are from so far.”

“But she can hear you,” replies a voice that Dean recognizes instantly as Dagon’s. It echoes in the vast space. “Come closer.”

Castiel walks forward immediately. Dean follows, Victor and Kelvin close at his heels staring about themselves. Baby rises to drift forward just above Dean’s head.

Looking behind, he sees that two doors open onto the bridge on either side of the elevator’s terminus. The undertone of speech stills as they near the far wall, dissolving into silence as they stop in front of a woman sitting at a simple console.

Behind her, the walls hold a long, curving bank of instruments manned by more black-clad individuals. Only the woman directly in front of them examines them, the rest continue with their work.

Dagon, for surely this is she, doesn’t speak for some moments. Her tongue touches her lips several times as she surveys the four visitors, like she’s tasting the air. Although she doesn’t rise, Dean can tell by the fold of her body in the chair that she’s quite petite. At last an expression of interested surprise crosses her face.

“You’re the one called Angel, aren’t you?”

Castiel inclines his head briefly. “You’re astute.”

“Yes.” Dagon considers the others in a further silence.

Dean realizes with a start that she has solid yellow irises and no pupils. She’s blind.

She lifts a hand to a small tray attached on the left arm of her chair, picking up a selection of sticks. Casting them down, she lets her left hand trace their pattern while she surveys Dean intently. Surveying him somehow without sight.

“The virtue of brightness,” she says in her silken voice. “Although one sees also tears flowing in torrents. But tread reverently, and there will be no error.”

“I beg your pardon?” Dean asks.

She laughs, amused perhaps at his expense. “You’re of interest to the Changes. Your passing stirs the stream.” Her tone sharpens. “You have with you a rare model. I wasn’t aware that such technology, however dated, was available in this backwater.” And her eyes, however sightless, drift up to fix on Baby.

“Perhaps,” Dean replies, not without a hint of irritation, “we not as backward as you’d like to believe. Why did you want us on your ship?”

“Curiosity,” she says, not without smugness. “But now I know it is the legendary Angel who spoke so cleverly to me earlier.”

“Then why did you take evasive action as you entered this system?” Dean counters.

Dagon sighs, as might a teacher when asked a foolish question for the tenth time by the same student. “I took evasive action because it’s always prudent to take evasive action. Furthermore, I have met with several vessels claiming to be official military ships in the course of my, shall we say, wanderings in this benighted region and all were inclined to be hostile.”

“Can you blame them?” Dean asks. “We don’t even know why you’re here.”

Castiel brushes a hand against his arm, warning, as Dagon’s expression tightens.

Her hands finger a small keyboard on the chair’s arm and after that she seems to wait, content not to speak but merely to observe them with whatever senses she uses. Victor and Kelvin continue to stare around themselves, amazed. Baby whirs quietly above Dean’s head.

He only knows something happens because Castiel stiffens beside him. Glancing at his face, Dean sees him shut his eyes, clenching them tight as if to prevent them from opening. His shoulders make the beginning of a movement to turn, a gesture he cuts off with a jerk into immobility. Dagon’s face remains impassive, but her awareness has subtly shifted past them.

Dean turns.

Across the vast room he watches three people enter the bridge and stop by the elevator. Two of them have blue hair, different hues than Castiel’s, but without a doubt blue and their eyes glow, one blue and the other's green. They’re tall and seem pale, but beyond that, at such distance, Dean can’t tell.

“You see,” Dagon speaks quietly. “I’m indeed called on a hunt for some of my employees. I’ve reason to believe you can give me information.” Her gaze rests on Castiel.

Castiel stands so still he might as well be a statue. He doesn’t respond.

By the elevator, the shortest of the three figures detaches itself from the others and starts to cross the floor. Dagon makes a brief, almost undetectable gesture with one hand, and the two blue haired people leave the bridge.

Castiel shudders and opens his eyes. He stares at Dagon with a look close to hatred. “Why did you do that?” He sounds near gone with rage.

“Is it not allowed?” Dagon’s tone might be mocking.

“Don’t play your damned games with me,” Castiel snarls, transforming with the anger that emanates from him.

“I remind you that this is _my_ ship. _My_ ground.”

“Do you think I care?” Castiel fairly shakes with rage. “I repeat. Don’t play your games with me. I’m no longer a piece on this board.”

“Of course you’re still a piece,” Dagon replies coldly. “You’ve merely been transformed into the wild card.” She extends a hand and a grey clad man passes beside Dean and hands Dagon a stoppered vial. “I’m called to the hunt, Angel. What’s it worth to you to help me?” She lifts the vial.

Castiel recoils from the movement. “Nothing. It’s worth nothing to me. Leave me alone with what little I’ve managed to build out of the wreckage.” His voice is hard.

“Ah, I see.” Dagon examines Castiel, her face alive with curiosity. Her tongue touches her lips three times. “You seek to escape your past by denying it.” Her left hand brushes at the sticks on the tray, gathering them into her palm, tossing them, tracing them.

Castiel takes another step back, almost stepping into Victor.

“I see the abyss.” The grim surety of her voice doesn’t change the expression of lively curiosity on her face. “‘His endeavors will lead him into the cavern of the pit.’ You’d do better to strive for wholeness.”

“Leave me alone.” Castiel’s voice is so soft Dean can barely hear him.

Dagon smiles, ironic and pitiless. “I think it’s the truth you fear.” She lifts the vial again. “I’ll pay you whatever is in my power to pay. Once the hunt is blooded, we’ll return to League space. Clearly there’s no booty worth our while here.” She pauses, gauging Castiel’s reaction. “Passage back?”

Castiel shakes his head emphatically. “You don’t have the entire equation, Dagon. That doesn’t tempt me.”

Dagon considers this thoughtfully. “It may indeed be true that I lack certain bits of vital information. It’s a small enough thing to ask of _you_ , Angel. I need only to know if you’ve come across the quarry in your wanderings.”

Castiel hesitates and Dean can see some debate warring inside him that manifests itself by no larger gesture than the clenching and unclenching of his right hand.

“Your honor,” chides Dagon. “ _Abai’is-ssa_. For your mother’s memory, at least.”

Castiel reaches out and grabs the vial. Unstoppering it and in a movement made stranger by the complete lack of self-consciousness with which he does it, he lifts it to his lips and simply breathes carefully and deeply, like he’s intent on its smell.

After some moments he lowers it, re-stoppers it and hands it back to Dagon. His face is now clear of expression. “Yes. On Ellen’s ship.”

Dagon doesn’t reply for a moment. “Difficult,” she says finally, musing, “but even Ellen must honor a hunt. Where did you meet her?”

Castiel reels off a string of numbers. “But that was over two League years ago,” he adds.

Dagon smiles again. She looks pleased. “If it’s simple, it wouldn’t be a challenge, would it? Why do you think I allowed my vessel to be called out?”

“I can’t imagine,” Castiel answers sardonically. “Your magnanimous nature, undoubtedly. I think we may as well go now. You have what you want.”

“But you’ve neglected your payment. I cannot,” Dagon pauses and repeats the word emphatically, “ _cannot_ let a debt go unpaid.”

Castiel shakes his head impatiently. “I said I don’t want anything—” As he starts to turn away, he catches sight of Victor, standing perplexed but alert behind Dean. Castiel smiles and briefly chuckles. “Look at that thing,” he continues, pointing to the artificial arm strapped to Victor’s right shoulder. “That’s the most obscene excuse for medical rehabilitation I’ve ever seen.”

Dagon raises her eyebrows. “Come here, man,” she says in a voice Victor doesn’t choose to disobey. Dagon reaches out and feels the arm from the hooks at its tip to the straps at its base. “Inept and primitive, certainly,” she agrees without expression.

“How can you tell from that kind of examination?” Dean demands.

“It’s true I lack sight, but do not therefore underestimate my other senses. Or your own. As Angel knows.” She waves Victor back and turns to regard Castiel with her uncanny, sightless eyes. “Your wish?”

“Replace it,” Castiel orders. “With your best prosthetic.”

“If I may speak—” Victor starts, exchanging a startled glance with his cousin.

“Victor,” Dean cuts in, “if I were you, I’d take it.” The clear decisiveness in his voice convinces Victor and he subsides into a watchful silence.

Dagon taps on the console keyboard, waits, seeming to listen to some voice no one else could hear.

“It would take a watch week, at minimum,” she speaks at last. “That covers only fitting, grafting and the elementary fitness testing. Any further care and rehabilitation would have to be completed under your care.”

Victor chuckles. “Well, I certainly trust Comrade Seraphim’s care. But we would have to talk to the Commander.”

“I’ll talk to Abner,” Dean speaks, forestalling Castiel’s reply.

Dagon frowns. “It will mean delay…”

“But it’s my price,” Castiel finishes sweetly. He lifts a hand to touch his hair. An almost furtive expression marks his face for a moment. “And I’ll need some specialized equipment,” he adds, like an afterthought.

Dagon’s eyebrows arch, in question. “Will you, indeed?”

“For monitoring his condition, of course,” Castiel continues a bit too quickly. He glances at Dean, measuring something in his own mind, then carefully returns his gaze to Dagon.

“As you say,” Dagon agrees and smiles a curiously prophetic smile.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's get down to business.
> 
> * * *

The _Lady Penrhyn_ remains in orbit with Bedlam Station for three full fleet weeks. Abner agreed—after a brief but obligatory and scathing denunciation of Dean’s presumption in giving orders without permission—to Victor’s surgery and sent on two of his six ships to a further post, expecting to follow them once Victor returned.

Before full preparations can be made to depart, a small merchantman arrives ostensibly for trade and Abner announces a delay. Victor comes back and is immediately sequestered in Medical, seeing only Castiel, Abner, his cousin and the duty techs, all of whom refuse to elaborate. Castiel tells Dean only that he’s pleased and a bit unprepared to deal with a prosthetic of such sophistication. Rumors of all sorts sweep the crew deck. None can be substantiated.

“What do you think?” Dean asks Jody at the end of the third week. They sit in the common room on one of the uncomfortable benches that line the walls.

Jody doesn’t answer for a moment and Dean follows the line of her eyes. At one of the nearby tables her son Owen stands at Paisley’s shoulder, peering with a seven year old’s intense concentration at the Ridani game of colored sticks and dice that she’s playing with Pinto, Castiel and Rainbow. At the table next to them, the Mule painstakingly teaches the intermediate elements of bissterlas to Alex; although the Mule treats Dean with reserved respect, they remain aloof toward everyone else except Paisley, whom they treat with a restrained tolerance that they’ve only recently begun to extend tentatively toward Alex.

“It’s sweet of Paisley to help Alex and me care for Owen,” Jody says at last, musing. “And you and Sam, of course. Otherwise we’d never cover our shifts.”

“Don’t thank me,” Dean replies quickly. “Actually, these past two months Cas of all people has been spending time with him, letting him tag along to Medical.”

Jody looks surprised and then chuckles. “So that’s it. Lately he’s been coming home full of peculiar facts, stories and questions I can’t answer. He keeps saying that he’s being tutored. I thought he’d snuck into some higher level education program in the computer. I’ll have to thank Cas.”

Dean grins briefly. “Please do. It’ll unsettle him.”

“Will it?” Jody asks with interest. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him unsettled. Well,” she pauses, “except for those two times with Benny.”

“Benny,” Dean repeats. “That’s what I was asking you about. Abner’s refused all three of my requests for Benny to be transferred to another ship. I have Sam sticking close to Benny and switched Baby from shadowing Cas to him as well. At least they can alert me, possibly stun him.” Dean shrugs. “I just don’t know what else to do.”

“Someday you’ll need to tell me what happened between you and Benny,” Jody remarks.

Dean can tell it’s an offhand comment, she’s not really asking, but he figures what the hell, maybe Jody might have a different perspective. “The Sar made a match for me on my 18th birthday, called her my present. Lisa Braeden. On Kansas women can reach their majority early by having a child. So Lisa agreed to a child-directed pair-bond. We’d never met beforehand, but she lived in my bedroom for a year. Never left it, even had meals delivered there. So no one could accuse her of sleeping with anyone else, you see?” Dean looked at Jody to make sure she understood. “For half of that year I slept in Sam’s room, but he was 14 and going through his growth spurt. Boy could he kick in his sleep, like a moose. Another third of the year I’d head over to Bobby’s Academy late enough that he’d let me crash in the bunk rooms he had for students caught there during a storm. The rest of the time… well, the rest of the time I snuck into town and hung out with Benny.”

“Lisa lived in your bedroom for a year and you never slept with her? Not once?” Jody sounded incredulous.

“Not once, couldn’t risk it. The contract the Sar had her parents sign meant any child we had would have been a Winchester, because I’m not a Campbell, and Lisa would never have seen the baby once it was born.” Jody grunts, all too familiar with that situation. “I heard later that she had a son, Ben, to a cousin of one of the other houses on Kansas. It was a better match for her. She got to stay with him.”

He pauses for a moment trying to bring his thoughts back to the current situation. “Benny—” Dean stops, not knowing what he wants to say next. 

Jody considers this while keeping her gaze on her son, who’s reaching pass Paisley to roll the three dice for her. “I honestly don’t know,” she says at last. “Given that you’re determined to keep Cas with you. You’re using what resources you have to cover as much ground as possible. Beyond quarantining one of them, or forcing it to a controlled resolution—”

“I’ve thought of that, I’m not ready yet,” Dean says. “Sam and I can’t figure out how to set up a confrontation that we can control completely. Especially with Cas.”

“Yeah.” Jody shifts her eyes to Castiel as he sits perfectly at ease with the three Ridanis, playing a game with them that by tradition only Ridanis are supposed to know. “I thought that sticks game was sacred, or something. How does he know it?”

Dean shrugs. “They’re letting Owen watch.”

“Yes, but watch if any adults get too close, or show too much interest. Have you spoken to Benny any more about Cas?”

“Only a bit. I never see him, partly because his duty schedule is so carefully set up to match Cas’, partly because he won’t come here when he’s free.”

“Can you blame him, Dean?”

Owen claps his hands in excitement as some roll of sticks or dice comes up in his, or at least in Paisley’s, favor.

“I’m not entirely sure it’s because of Cas,” Dean says. “He still won’t speak to any Ridanis unless he has to.”

“That’s not so different for a lot of Jehane’s troops. You know it’s a shock to most of these people that Jehane’s enlisted tattoos as regular Comrades at all. Even if most of the Ridanis are in separate companies, still it rankles a lot of the soldiers. Benny’s not so different.”

“He should be,” Dean responds hotly. “I expect better of him. I always thought he was easygoing, good-natured. On the other hand, when did we ever see Ridanis at Campbell House? There may’ve been some mines that employed them for the worst work. I don’t know. Most jobs weren’t open to Ridanis on Kansas and if you weren’t tied into one of the House mines, or to the university or the city offices, you had no access to living quarters, which are a true necessity on Kansas. Sam and I just never saw them, growing up.”

“Then you ought to understand why Benny can be prejudiced.”

“Except it doesn’t mean you have to be,” Dean speaks harshly. “Having nothing personal against them. That’s one thing the Saress _never_ tolerated at table. Any kind of ignorant prejudice.”

“Just informed ones?” Jody shakes her head. “Did the Sar ever try to hire Ridanis?”

“No,” Dean admits. “I don’t think he did. Mom made it clear however, you judge an individual on his own merits, not on any preconceived ideas.” Now his eyes move to the Mule. Jody, looking with him, nods slightly. Dean finishes. “Too bad it’s not as easy in practice as it is in theory. What do you think Abner’s got on the screen, anyway?”

“Void take me,” Jody sighs. “I just had this one out last night with the other form leaders. I don’t want to go over it again.”

Dean laughs. “All right. Then how about Victor? What do you think Dagon’s people strapped to his arm? A laser cannon?”

“Speak of the Void and it enters,” Jody points to the far wall. “There he is.”

Preceded by his cousin, Victor enters the common room and stops to survey the occupants. Most haven’t noticed him yet. Most in any case, won’t know him. His eyes find Dean’s and he smiles, walking across the room towards them.

“I don’t see anything different—” Jody stops.

There is nothing different. Victor holds a thin screen in one hand, the other swings by his side as he walks. He has two hands, two arms, perfectly normal.

Castiel glances up, not with surprise, more to mark Victor’s passage and acknowledge it with a brief nod. Other people glance at him, noticing nothing out of the ordinary. Rainbow stops playing and stares, an action that attracts Owen’s attention. Kelvin merely grins.

“Comrade Smith. Comrade Mills.” Victor stops before them with a smile. He’s clearly pleased with himself and enjoying their consternation.

“Let me see that,” Dean demands.

Victor holds his right arm out for him. Dean takes the hand, touches the arm and makes a face.

“Stop trying to fool me. The artificial one.”

Victor shrugs, still smiling, and offers Dean his left arm.

“No,” Dean says after a moment, “it _was_ the right one that was amputated. Shit.”

“Damn my eyes,” breathes Jody. “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.” She looks between the two arms noting the only difference is the lack of old scars on the right.

Victor’s not inclined to gloat. “Comrade Smith,” he says as he detaches his hand from Dean’s incredulous grip. “I’m actually here to get you for a staff meeting with Comrade Officer Abner.”

“When?” Dean asks.

“Now. This time it’s not a false alarm. We have an assignment.” He smiles with relish, opening and closing his false hand that is as real to touch and sight as his natural one. “Action at last.”

  


.oOo.

  


Abner already has the table lit up in the tac room when Dean and Victor arrive. Three officers from other ships come in after them. Victor leans on the edge of the tac table, examining the array of lights beneath the surface that represent the placement of systems surrounding the _Lady’s_ current position. Dean, with a last look at Victor’s right hand, moves to stand beside his fellow officers-in-training and waits.

The tac officer finishes entering information into the table’s computer and steps back to let Abner into the control console. Abner surveys the group of about sixteen people, before reconfiguring the display on screen and speaking.

“This model shows approximately the plus _x_ , minus _y_ , plus _z_ or delta octant of Riven space. The red point represents Bedlam.” A white light dutifully starts blinking red. “Now I’ll expand perspective to include the entire plus _z_ of the grid. Central, as you know, rests at null. The two blue points of light,” white lights switch to blue, “represent Wellington and Tottenham. Jehane has clear control of Tottenham and all points beyond. He also has passive, undercover, control of Wellington. Now,” Abner pauses, reading each face in turn before continuing, “we begin to encircle. Our first goal is to control all windows into and out of Wellington. With Wellington and Tottenham in our hands, Jehane basically controls the major vector routes throughout the plus _z_.” A second pause as Abner widens the perspective to include the entire grid of Riven space.

“Not counting Arcadia at null,” Victor says into the hush, “there’s only two major agricultural planets in the minus _z_. Brighton and Guildford.”

Dean lifts a hand slightly, catching Abner’s attention. “Brighton isn’t _that_ productive, Comrade. It supplies its own sector and as far as I remember from school, exports very little.”

Abner offers the group a brief smile. “Exactly. The pressure builds on Arcadia. Guildford and Brighton begin to look vulnerable. In any case,” the grid shrinks back to focus on the plus-minus-plus delta octant of Riven space, “we’re moving out in six hours for Epping.”

A kind of collective, unvoiced gasp catches in the throats of the officers present.

“I thought Epping’s heavily garrisoned?” a voice sounds from the back.

“It is. We’ve just received word of a diversion, planned by and to be led personally by Jehane, is on schedule for Coledale, which as you see has routes out through Epping and past the Sta home world to Tottenham. This diversion will pull off a large proportion of Epping’s garrison, who’ll believe Jehane is beginning an attack on the vector ring that circles Arcadia.”

“What if the diversion fails?”

“There’re two back doors out of Coledale, both of which immediately branch. It’s a fairly safe feint for the attacker and a dangerous ambush for Central’s forces. So,” on the grid, Epping system grows until a planet turns beneath them, lines tracing two small continents marked with two large cities on their surface, “we move in and destroy all the ground emplacements and garrison housing. The two converted merchantmen will dock at Epping Station, which as you see is an orbiter. They’ll forcibly evacuate the hub and destroy the second wheel,” the grid narrows into an image of the Station, with its slow rotation blocking their view of star by distant star in turns, “which houses the garrison’s regional command. Then we leave.”

Abner waits while the officers examine the screen and murmur comments back and forth. Eventually they subside and return their attention to their commander.

“This is strictly a strike. We’re not establishing any zone of control. We’re to hit ‘n’ leave. Epping’ll be crippled for months. The estimate’s three, which’ll give us some time to cinch a noose ‘round it and cut it off completely without worrying about its capabilities.”

“What about Central?” Victor asks. “Surely they can send out reinforcements from Arcadia.”

“By the time they hear about it we’ll be gone.”

Dean, studies the curve of Epping as it turns on the screen, thinking through the grid of the region. He moves forward putting a hand on the edge of the table. “What about the Sta?”

Abner nods. “The Sta are neutral in this conflict. Trade’ll continue to pass through the routes they oversee, so long as no fighting occurs. Any other questions?”

There’s none.

“Very well. Assignments. We’ll start with the ground assault, divided into teams Delta and Kappa. Team Delta will run in three groups. Comrade Officer Henriksen will lead Group One, Comrade Officer Lowry Two and Comrade Smith Three. Your destination: this city, called Chipping Norton. The ground emplacements there are strong enough that you may run into fire on approach, but we expect to have thrown Epping’s forces into confusion by our quick destruction of their space command. Team Kappa will be in two groups…”

  


.oOo.

  


Epping hangs brilliant blue against the void of space. On his first sight of it, Dean wonders if it has any land at all until it rotates to reveal two irregular masses that seem scarcely larger than islands, isolated in so much water. Even after living on Arcadia, where truth be told he hadn’t seen a larger body of water than a lake, he still can’t imagine an ocean, much less a planet whose surface is over ninety-five per cent water. Abner mentioned there’s land besides the two land masses optimistically called continents, but they’re a scattering of islands strewn across the vast sea.

Dean shudders. He studies the vaguely rectangular continent on which the city Chipping Norton has grown and presumably flourishes. As he turns away from this view, the tac officer’s voice comes from his wrist-comm, calling the countdown to strike. At least Chipping Norton isn’t on the coast, rather a plateau in the center of the continent.

He meets the others in the shuttle bay. In the space between two shuttles, Jody stands arguing with Victor. Owen, tears bright on his face under the glare of harsh light, clutches at his mother’s waist as if he means never to let go of her.

“—we don’t have enough people,” Victor’s saying as Dean walks up to them. Behind Jody, Alex sits on a crate, dressed in Jehanish whites that look too harsh for her. “In any case,” Victor continues, turning to include Dean, “if you could use your own comm-man on your shuttle, instead of having him go down with _me_ because of—” A hesitation as he glances toward the distant figure of Castiel, who’s speaking to Pinto on the shuttle’s ramp. Dean, looking that way, can read from Castiel’s posture that he’s listening while trying to look otherwise engaged. “—because of _that_ , you wouldn’t need a second comm. Alex is all we’ve got. She has to go.”

“I can’t leave my son alone on this ship for Void knows how long—” Jody breaks off. Her expression is taut with worry and she frowns, laying a hand on her son’s startlingly golden hair as the full implications of her interrupted comment hits her.

“Take him with us,” Dean says. “There’re extra seats and he’ll be with Alex the entire time.”

Jody turns on Dean, angry now. “Take him into fire? Are you insane?”

“Jody—” Dean starts.

Jody sighs and shuts her eyes, sinking to her knees, hugging the boy with a tenderness that seems uncharacteristic in a mercenary of her background. “Oh, Owen,” she murmurs as the boy hugs her with one arm and wipes his face with the other, “what a life I’ve made for you.”

Victor moves away.

“I can help Alex,” Owen says in a high, quiet voice, an echo of Alex’s. “I know that comm pretty good.”

“Pretty well,” Jody corrects him automatically. She glances over at Alex, who simply sits looking frightened but determined. “I forget that you’ve never done anything like this either, Alex.”

Alex doesn’t say anything.

Dean rests a hand gently on Jody’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Jody.”

Jody shakes her head roughly, shaking off Dean’s pity. “What choice do we have?” she asks, not really with bitterness. “We’re better off together whatever happens. I can’t protect them forever.” She gives Owen a brusque kiss on the forehead and stands up, pushing him firmly toward Alex. “It’s just,” she says in a low voice to Dean as Owen obediently goes to stand next to Alex, “that I’d like for him to have a chance to grow up. But then I wonder what kind of life would he have anyway? It’s a hard world for children like him.”

Dean lets his hand rest on Jody’s shoulder a moment longer, then lifts it and gives the woman a light slap on the shoulder. “Isn’t that one of the things we’re fighting for? Let’s board.”

Dean’s been given two Ridani soldiers, Cursive and Diamond, to fill out his fighting ten. With Benny and Elizabeth doing comm-duty on the other two shuttles of their team, it leaves him only Pinto and Alex to cover the shuttle controls once the ground party takes off. He brings up the city grid on his comm-screen as he waits for their turn to disengage, studying the map and the emplacements they’re to hit. In the seat in front of him, Alex fiddles nervously with the knobs on the comm-board as the _Lady Penrhyn’s_ comm talks to Epping Station.

“—request permission to dock at oh-five hundred system standard.”

“Accepted. We require a full identification string before clearance can be allowed. Acknowledge.”

“Accepted. String to follow—”

Alex toggles the switch and catches the end of a ship-to-ship transmission on a tight channel.

“—we’re reading a far higher activity quotient here than expected.”

“From our vantage, Commander Abner, we still see a low activity rate on the military hub, with only two ships in dock. What are your further instructions?”

“Maintain orbit as long as possible, Comrade, and keep your vantage on strict distance until our approach order is finalized. We expect a six hour lag for our teams to reach the surface. Move only once we have commenced firing.”

“Accepted, Commander. We are holding.”

Alex flips back to the main comm-channel, but it’s still running the blur of the identification string to Station central.

Pinto moves, chin lifting, hands shifting on the controls. “Power ready,” he announces. “We’ll be swinging into Station blindside in two minutes. Prepare for release.” He turns his head to look behind. “You’re all strapped in? We’re going to drop hard for a fast entry.” His gaze flicks past Dean to Owen, but the boy’s face shows no more emotion than his mother’s, seated beside him.

The string plays out and the comm-channel lapses for tangible moments into the crackle and spit of dead air.

After an ominously long pause, Station’s voice comes back on.

“We have received you, _Lady Penrhyn_. Docking clearance and approach will be transmitted on your next pass. Please remain in your present orbit while blindside. Acknowledge.”

The _Lady’s_ “Accepted” is lost to sudden static as the ship passes blindside. The shuttle rings with the uncoupling. Pinto clears his view window and they can see the _Lady’s_ hull receding as they drop away from it.

Alex fumbles with the headset that’ll allow her to communicate with the rest of the team’s shuttles. In the back, behind the last rank of seats, the Mule and Castiel begin the final checks and assembly of their equipment.

 _Lady Penrhyn’s_ receding hull resolves into the rotund, utilitarian lines of a merchantman. All signs of her military refitting have, at least to Dean’s eyes, been cleverly hidden.

“Powering up,” Pinto announces. “Prepare for entry. One last warning,” he doesn’t look up from his controls, “we’ll be dropping fast—”

The engines come to life, filling the cabin with their low undertone and the _Lady Penrhyn_ disappears from them. Somehow, even with the pressure, the Mule and Castiel manage to keep working.

“All teams clear,” Alex reports so softly that only Sam, Dean and Pinto can hear her.

They hit the atmosphere hard, bucking, heading nearly straight down rather than the more traditional leisurely curve, but they’re running for time not comfort.

“What’s our count, Pinto?” Sam asks quietly.

He taps a few keys, bringing figures up on his console. “Five hours, thirty-eight minutes.” Dean nods, turning his head to survey his team. “I suggest you rest while you can. I’ll give you four hours.”

Behind them, Jody’s already dozing. Next to her, Owen has settled his comm-screen on his lap and is doing calculations, talking to himself in a whisper as he attempts to master the intricacies of elementary bissterlas. Dean shuts his eyes, hoping he can sleep. Owen’s light voice lulls him.

He wakes to a crackle from the comm. Alex, trying to pull in Station comm, has turned up the volume.

“Count?” Dean asks, shifting in his seat.

Pinto checks. “On schedule. One fleet hour, twenty two minutes. Groups One and Two are at point and left.”

“Any sightings?”

He shakes his head. In the windows all they can see are clouds.

Alex turns down the static, glancing back at Dean apprehensively. “Nothing on any channel. Tight beam with One and Two confirms that we’re on course as scheduled. We’ll land four hours after sunset. But the _Lady_ hasn’t come back into Station sight side yet.”

“Keep monitoring.” Dean unstraps and stands gingerly, testing the shake of the shuttle for balance. He moves back, waking each person individually. Cas, in the back, has cleared all the lockers. Dean doesn’t ask him if he’s slept. They eat quickly, strapping into equipment. He briefly goes once more over the mission. A communications node, flanked by a military port that warehouses about twenty shuttles, mostly transports.

“This isn’t meant to be fancy,” Dean finishes. “It’s demolition. One and Two will be, respectively, striking at emplacements five and twelve kilometers away. We’ll take separate courses off planet and rendezvous with the _Lady Penrhyn_ beyond Epping’s orbital track. Further if we have to. Pinto assures me this shuttle can coast to system’s edge if necessary.” He smiles wryly. “Let’s hope we don’t have to find out if he’s right.”

“Dean—” Alex’s voice is hesitant. “Comrade Smith. I’ve got Station comm, but—”

The explosion drowns out his response. The shuttle veers suddenly left, banking sharply. Dean’s thrown into a seat. He scrambles up as Pinto rights the shuttle, then immediately drops it into a steep dive. Dean slides down to his seat, hurriedly strapping himself in.

“Status?” His voice rings sharp.

“Someone’s shooting at us—” Pinto starts but is cut off by Alex.

“Two’s been hit! But they’re still—”

A second explosion. The shuttle jerks like it’s been hit. Pinto banks a sharp left, then right, but the shuttle drops swiftly, shuddering, until at last he pulls it up.

“Damn,” he murmurs. “I’ve lost stabilization in my right wing.”

“You’d think,” Jody drawls in a low voice, “that Jehane would’ve provided these shuttles with guns.” Her gaze rest on her son, who sits staring wide-eyed towards the front viewscreens.

“Who fights in the atmosphere?” Sam mutters as he tightens his own restraints, calling out for everyone to do the same.

“Pinto, who’s on us?” Dean asks grimly

“It’s ground fire. They must be tracking us from the comm node.”

Another explosion. This time the entire shuttle rocks with the violence of the hit. A thin stream of smoke starts to leak from the back into the cabin.

“I’m not going to make it to that field,” Pinto announces in a colorless voice. “I’ve lost an engine.”

“Can you pull up?”

He’s too focused on beginning a zigzag path and consulting his map grid of the surface to even shake his head. “I wouldn’t risk it.”

“Then land safely. First priority.” Somehow Dean keeps his voice even. “Veer off from the target. Find us a safe harbor. Once we’re on the ground, we’ll work from there. Alex.” She snaps her head around and he’s amazed to see tears streaming down her face. “Alex! Tell the _Lady_ we’re changing to prolonged ground action. Then get me Victor.”

“They’re not there.” Alex’s voice shakes. She gulps, trying to speak coherently. “I can’t raise the _Lady Penrhyn_ , all I get on the channel is Epping Station talking about firing on a target and some government military receiving. _They’re not there._ ”

“Get me Victor!” Dean snaps.

The shuttle shudders violently. A high, ominous whine cuts across the noise of the engines.

“I’m losing number two engine,” Pinto states. “There’s some kind of open strip at thirty degrees, I’m going to try and land there.”

“Strap in,” Dean orders, not looking around. Sam rolls his eyes and tugs once again at his straps

They emerge from the clouds into a night lit by city lights, almost on top of a dark sprawl of derelict warehouses ringed by a long stretch of black roadway.

“I think there’s something wrong with my console,” Alex says desperately. She flips switches frantically. “I can’t—”

“—Three. This is One. Can you”—it fades again—“ _Lady_ is hit. We are receiving no communication at—losing altitude—must assume we’re on our own without—”

Static replaces the faint, cool voice of Victor.

Pinto says something under his breath as they touch down. The shuttle rocks and bumps along the strip of road, shaken by ruts and fissures in the roadbed. They slow and Pinto turns them toward the shadowy bulk of the warehouses.

“With your permission, Comrade,” he says quietly, “I’ll head for cover.”

“Granted.” Dean unstraps himself and moves to stand behind Pinto, craning forward to get the best possible view of the sky. Clouds obscure one corner of the horizon, the way they came, but most of the vault blooms with stars, clear and bright, echoing the distant lights of the city.

“What’s that?” Owen asks.

Above, far above, color and light blossom in a great blaze, a flash illuminating the night sky, like fireworks, or the announcement of a ship’s death.

Alex’s console comes to life one final time with the voice of Epping Station, or one of its military adjuncts.

“Accepted. We have destroyed the vessel _Lady Penrhyn_.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to take stock, and make friends.
> 
> * * *

“It be ya sure I can’t fix them, or ya comm,” Paisley says, “and I be studying nothing but ya tech, ’cept ya basic combat, all ya time we be on—” She breaks off, rubbing a grease-stained hand across a smear left previously on her face, unwilling to say the name of the ship. “Sore luck pass me by,” she mutters and makes a brief gesture that’s echoed by all of the Ridanis except Pinto.

For a moment no one speaks as they survey the crippled shuttle, stowed now in the temporary haven of a derelict, empty warehouse. Then, as if with a common thought, they all turn and look at Dean.

He feels a moment of hideous self-doubt as they regard him expectantly, faces pale with worry or bleak with grief for comrades presumably dead or obliterated in the _Lady’s_ final fight. Cas alone has a slight smile on his face, like he’s amused at their predicament.

“Rainbow.” Dean chooses action as his refuge. “You and Diamond’ll secure the area. I want a constant patrol on the roof and an emplaced gunner set to cover the main door. To be relieved at intervals by Cursive, Pinto and Paisley.” He pauses, considering Paisley for a few moments, remembering their run on Kansas Station through back alleys and forgotten corridors. “No, I want Paisley on reconnaissance. We’ll set up sweep patrols to secure the area. We need to know where the nearest habitations are. Pinto, I’ll need your estimate of where we are in relation to our target. We’ll go in pairs. Cas and Sam, Jody with the Mule—”

“Hold on,” Jody says and gestures towards her son.

“Jody.” Dean’s soft tone silences her protest. He continues more briskly “We don’t have enough people, the Ridanis will show up like blast storms if Epping has the same restrictions most other planets have. Until we find out otherwise, you’re on patrols. I trust Paisley to scout this area because I know she’s got experience in not being seen.”

Paisley beams at the compliment, wiping a third streak of grease over the bright pattern of her face.

“Paisley’ll sweep with Baby and me. Owen.” He turns and squats in front of the boy, who’s holding tightly to Alex’s jacket. “I want you to stay on the shuttle with Alex, okay buddy? You’re to listen on the comm in case we get a message from one of the other teams. Can you do that for me?”

He nods solemnly.

“Now.” He sweeps his gaze across all their faces, checking each in turn, measuring their resolve. “We need to find Jehanish sympathizers. Locals who are willing to help us. We need to repair the engines and comm. If we can also strike and destroy our original target—once we have a clear escape route—so much the better. Jody, Sam, take your teams out first. Use your best judgment if you run across any natives. Paisley, I want you to go out solo as far as you can, find me the nearest habitation and get an estimate of how many people, how it’s linked to the city itself and what conditions they live under.”

When Dean stops speaking, the silence left in the absence of his words seems to impose a paralysis on his listeners.

“Well?” he demands, impatient with their hesitation, like this lack of action might cause his doubts to resurface. “Get moving.”

They move.

In the wake left by the sudden departure of his audience, Dean sits on the lip of the shuttle’s ramp and beckons Baby closer. The robot floats over to him, lights blinking to the rhythm of the song she sings

_Risin' up, back on the street_  
_Did my time, took my chances_  
_Went the distance, now I'm back on my feet_  
_Just a man and his will to survive_

He allows himself the song’s length just to sit, to let his mind follow the music without dwelling on the task before him. But as Baby closes the final cadence, he sighs deeply, shaking loose his reverie and rubs a hand over his eyes like he can clear them and see how to get everyone out of this disaster.

Footsteps ring softly on the ramp as he stands up. Pinto appears, holding a screen in one hand. Bringing it over to Dean, he displays it so they can both see the map grid.

“I estimate that we’re here,” he says. A flashing bar pinpoints them on the grid. Baby rises to hang at Pinto’s shoulder. “That puts the target—” 

Another marker flashes.

“Could be worse,” Dean says. “Twelve kilometers, we could’ve landed right on top of them.”

“I’m glad you’re optimistic,” Pinto replies caustically. “You don’t really think we’re going to get out of this, do you?”

Dean pulls the screen out of his grasp. “Do you suggest we just turn ourselves in? Somehow I don’t think you can persuade your _father_ to intervene this time. Shall we ask the local military to call Senator Alastair at Central and see if his influence extends this far out?”

Pinto’s mouth pulls taut. He averts his face quickly and with obvious anger.

“Pinto.” Dean lets his voice soften. “When I look at the damage this boat took, I’m amazed you landed us in one piece.”

Dean pauses to let the compliment sink in, but Pinto makes a brief, negatory shrug with one shoulder.

“We’ve a good crew,” Dean continues. “Just because you think life has it in for you doesn’t mean—”

Pinto laughs. “Doesn’t mean that it does? Can you really stand here— _here_ —and say that?”

“Didn’t you tell me something once about your luck? Shit, Pinto. You can let circumstances rule you, or you can work to change them. I know which life is easier.”

He waits, but Pinto doesn’t reply. With a sigh, Dean swings around to lift up the main hand-pack radio left by Rainbow when she went to set up her position. “I suggest,” Dean finishes, more command than solicitude, “that you sleep while we have the leisure.”

Pinto gives him a sarcastic salute and disappears up the ramp.

“Dammit,” he murmurs, adding a few exasperated phrases of music to which Baby wisely doesn’t comment. He sits down again on the ramp and fiddles with the hand-pack, continuing to whistle. _Baby. We need to contact Victor’s team—if they’re still out there. And Two, as well. I’ll want five second bursts of the_ Lady’s _codes, at random intervals and fluctuating frequencies. I don’t know how sophisticated Epping military’s detection equipment is. If we get a response, go to the classified code in a ten second burst and if it’s Henriksen or Lowry, compress Pinto’s estimate of our position into no more than a fifteen second burst._

 _Affirmative, Dean. If I may suggest a more sophisticated strategy for avoiding detection by surveillance equipment—_ Baby pauses respectfully.

“Baby,” Dean answers, rubbing the robot’s smooth sheen with one hand, “do whatever you think is best. Just find out if either of them made it.”

Baby sings happily and drifts down to plug into the hand-pack.

Unfamiliar voices carry in from the front. A protest—Dean jumps up, unstrapping his pistol, pausing when he hears the sharp bark of Jody’s voice ordering silence. Dean keeps his pistol loose as he walks around the shuttle’s bulk and finds himself face to face with a sullen adolescent boy of perhaps sixteen years, and his smaller female companion.

The Mule has a firm grip on the female’s bulky jacket. The girl, seeing Dean, shakes herself hard and comes up against the Mule’s strength for what is clearly the fourth or fifth time.

“She’s a slow learner,” Jody tells Dean apologetically. The mercenary keeps her rifle trained on the boy. “We found these two skulking around the next warehouse over.”

“Told you I heard something landing,” the girl says in a ragged but triumphant voice.

The boy, after a cursory and uninterested glance at Dean, focuses on the shuttle. “That’s an Argus Sixteen One Ten,” he says loftily to his companion. “It’s smaller but has a longer range than the Furet's. And you said it was a military crash. But this one’s modified.” His eyes range over the shuttle with the eye of a connoisseur. “And damaged.”

“Excuse me,” Dean says sarcastically. “Can you tell me what you’re doing here?”

“You’re criminals,” the girl speaks with conviction. “We don’t have to tell you nothin’.”

“Oh shut up, Mandy.” The boy’s tone rings heavy with old irritation. “How could criminals have this kind of boat?” Now he looks at Dean, but it still seems a chore for him to tear his eyes away from the shuttle, despite the several guns trained on him. “What are you? Smugglers caught in Security? I thought you all knew how tight it is here. Or haven’t you ever been to Epping before? They won’t execute you, though, like I hear they do some places, but they’ll take everything you have and leave you stranded in Shanty with nothing more than the clothes on your back. That’s punishment enough.”

Dean glances at Jody, but she has no expression on her face. “Is that what happened to you?” Dean asks carefully.

“Nah,” the boy shrugs casually. “Me Pap. I been here all my life.”

“What?” Mandy interrupts hotly. “You going to pretend you don’t hate it here just so you can impress these?” Her glare rakes Dean and she puts a hand to her hooded head in a gesture made doubly melodramatic by her sudden and very audible intake of breath. “White uniforms! They’re Jehanists! Bet you. Bet you, Brian.”

Brian shifts with sudden interest. In the banked lights that run along the shuttle’s wings, Dean can see what he’d thought was a bruise mottling the right side of his face is in fact a pattern of circles and squares and triangles woven together, like a Ridani’s incomplete tattoo.

Jody turns to level her rifle at the far door. A moment later Paisley enters and jogs over to salute Dean and waits for permission to speak, panting slightly from her run.

“Is that a real tattoo?” Mandy asks. “Are those real, or just painted on like Brian’s?”

Paisley turns to look at the girl, taking her measure. After a moment she blinks her eyes innocently and says sweetly. “Do you want to touch them?” She extends a dappled hand.

Mandy leaps back as if Paisley’s offered her the plague, only to collide with the Mule’s unyielding chest. She yelps.

“Oh shut up, Mandy,” snaps Brian. “I guess you’re in charge here,” he says grudgingly to Dean.

“Hold on,” Dean cuts the boy off. He looks at Paisley. “Report.”

Paisley smiles. “Ya fields be on ya three sides of ya warehouses. Ya fourth be ya street. Sure, and it be ya rundown old place. Reckon ya people there be as poor as ya Ridanis. It be ya quiet so—so late. Or be it early here?”

“She talks funny, too,” Mandy mutters rebelliously.

“How about Rainbow’s people?” Dean asks Jody.

Jody nods. “Well concealed. Knowing they were there, I had to look twice to see them.”

Dean considers Brian in silence for long enough that he regains his sullen mask and starts to fidget, his eyes drifting occasionally to the shuttle.

“What do you know about Jehane?” he asks finally.

The kid shrugs. “Not much. Me Pap talks about him some with Mandy’s Mam and the other Shanty elders.” His lips lift in a sneer. “Course, if you’re Jehanists, I suppose you’re going to say you’re here to save us.”

“No,” Dean speaks quietly. “I’m not going to say that. I’m going to have you and the girl take me to see your Pap and the other elders.”

“Dean.” Jody keeps her voice low, but it sounds menacing nonetheless. “Shouldn’t we keep one of them here as hostage? For leverage?”

“Do you think that will make them trust us? No. I’ll go alone.” He motions to the Mule to take the two kids aside for a moment. “Paisley, you’re to follow without being seen. Jody, you and the Mule continue sweeps, but keep in contact with Paisley.”

“But—”

“No. We need to get their help without coercion. We can’t get out of here without real support and that’ll only come if they trust us and believe in Jehane’s cause. Or can be convinced to believe in it.”

Jody frowns, but she sketches a salute to Dean and moves over to the Mule.

“Get going,” Dean says to Paisley. He holsters his pistol and waves at the Mule to release the two captives.

“Are you really a Jehanist?” Mandy asks once they’re clear of the warehouse.

“I work in Jehane’s cause,” Dean answers.

Mandy whistles appreciatively. “Old Elder Elkins got thrown in the block last month for preaching Jehane’s cause. I heard he’s on a hunger strike now cause they won’t let him have a terminal or nothing, not to read or write on. And last week this one kid got shot by Security for—”

“What difference does it make?” Brian interrupts. “Jed just wanted to impress Tara, and Daniel Elkins’ half out of his vector anyway. You don’t really think Jehane can win against Central, do you?

“And who cares, anyway?” Brian continues. “I’d love to see the modifications in that shuttle. I’ll bet they’re disguised so they can’t even be read by a cruiser’s sensors. I got into a locked file and got to see the specs on the cruiser they brought here last week.”

“A cruiser?” Dean asks sharply, realizing now that the feint on Coledale must’ve failed and yet hoping there might be a different explanation. “Are you sure there’s a military cruiser in Epping system?”

“Yep,” Brian says enthusiastically. “It’s a beauty. The firepower’s way augmented from the old models.”

Dean considers this as they walk along the asphalt paving the ground between the close ranks of warehouses. It’s cracked from long disuse, making their footing precarious.

Mandy squeals .

Dean drops instinctively into a crouch, whipping his pistol out.

“That was your ship, wasn’t it?” Mandy exclaims, a vocal continuation of the squeal. “The one that blew up tonight. It lit up the whole sky.”

Dean lets out his breath through closed lips and straightens up.

“And I’ll bet it can jump double windows, too,” Brian continues, oblivious now he’s intent on recalling the cruiser.

  


.oOo.

  


Brian’s Pap takes a bit of rousing, but once he stumbles out into the drab, ill-lit kitchen and common room of his tiny apartment, situated over a junk heap of a small building marked with a sign saying ‘Wilcox’s Repairs and Metals’, he greets Dean civilly enough. A clear, although bleary eyed, look at Dean’s white uniform galvanizes him into action.

Within twenty minutes, six elders of Shanty sit sipping curdled-looking aris and staring raptly at Dean in his Jehanist whites.

Mandy pulls her hood down and sits on the floor next to Brian in the corner. He’s ignoring the proceedings while scribbling aimlessly on an old, battered screen.

Dean stands up and surveys the company for a long moment in respectful silence, as much to let them look at him as to study them. But what he sees is hopeful. The room is shabby, sparsely furnished with secondhand appliances and worn, ugly furniture. The elders wear poorly-fitting clothes burnished with age. A rash disfigures the pale skin of Mandy’s neck and jawline. Brian’s Pap has a puffy eye and the elder introduced to him as Mandy’s mother keeps coughing, a racking painful sound. One elder entered with a pronounced limp.

“My name’s Dean Smith,” Dean starts. “Comrade Smith.” The silence that greets these first tentative words is expectant but cautious. “I’m going to give it to you straight. We’re Jehane’s soldiers. Our ship was destroyed by Central’s fleet and we need your help and you look,” he pauses to let his eyes sweep the room again, deliberately, “like the kind of people Jehane’s been fighting for all along.”

Brian’s Pap rises from his chair, a bulky man who nevertheless moves with slow dignity. “I’m Elder Wilcox,” he says. “This is my shop and my living space. I reckon you’re what you say you are. It isn’t likely you’re anything else, unless you’re a spy from Security come to roust out a suspected Jehanish nest.”

A dry chuckle all around greets this sarcastic remark.

“But you’ll have to prove it,” he goes on. Dean nods, acknowledging this request. “I reckon we’d all like to hear why you’re here in the first place and what help you can do us.”

Looking at them, Dean wishes desperately that Master Smith was here, he’d know what to say and how to say it. Dean gives his jacket a self-conscious tug and banishes such pointless thoughts. After all, he’s Smith now and sooner or later he’s going to truly assimilate that fact. He smiles slightly, thinking of the disparity in experience between him and Master Smith and is surprised to see an answering gleam of a smile on Wilcox’s face.

“I suppose,” he starts, “the easiest way to prove we’re from Jehane’s forces is to see how quickly troops would come running if we gave up our position. But we’re not ready to do that yet.”

He adjusts a sleeve as he gets a muffled chuckle from one of the elders, stops himself from toying with the other sleeve and lifts his chin a little. “The only proof I can give you is to show you to our shuttle and let you look it over. Otherwise, you’ll have to take us on trust. I don’t have any credentials and they wouldn’t mean anything even if I did have ‘em. As to how we can help you, I’m not sure…” He pauses as a thought occurs to him. “If you’ll excuse me a moment.” He raises one arm and coding in the tightest possible channel, calls up Castiel’s identification code on his wrist-comm, hoping he’s within range. After a moment, Castiel replies.

“I need you,” he says. “Have Sam return to base and bring your kit. I’ll send Paisley back to base to show you where I’m.”

“That won’t be necessary.” His voice sounds detached and almost alien over the tiny receiver clipped to Dean’s ear. “I’ll find you. Out.”

He looks across at Wilcox. “Elder, I’ve sent for one of my people. Perhaps you can set someone outside to watch for him.”

“Brian,” Elder Wilcox nods curtly at his son. “Go on.”

Brian doesn’t respond for a moment, like he’s judging whether or not this is a fit moment for rebellion. Finally, looking put upon, he lets out a prolonged sigh of adolescent disgust and stands with sullen lethargy to drag himself out of the room.

“I’m not sure what help we can give you,” Dean speaks as the door shuts behind Brian. “We need your help if we’re to carry on Jehane’s fight. Turnabout is fair play. Our success helps Jehane and _his_ will bring the reforms that’ll lift you out of,” he gestures with one hand, “out of this.”

“So Jehane says,” mutters one of the Elders.

“Well, Travis,” Elder Wilcox says, “I reckon it’s a sight better promise than any Central’s given us these past twenty years.” He has a slow, almost ponderous way of speaking, but perhaps it’s conscious, for he uses it to let his words carry weight. “Not like in Thompson’s time, when he made jobs for them as hadn’t any and helped those as couldn’t work through no fault of their own.” He nods at the Elder who’d limped in.

“It’s true there’s more help, food and decent shelter and medicine,” says Mandy’s mother, stopping after these words for a spasm of coughing to pass. “But Max Thompson governed here on Epping, even if he was appointed by Central. Who’s to say how much reform’ll reach us even if this Jehane business does reform Central?”

“Surely it can’t get any worse?” mutters Travis. “Elkins always said—”

“Elkins hasn’t any nav left to vector from—”

“I hear it’s a tattoo religion, this Jehane. Would you trust any tattoo superstition?”

“Central isn’t going to help us. They’ve made that clear. I still say we’re better off supporting them as at least cares for our troubles.”

“Elders! Elders!” Wilcox lifts both of his thick hands in the universal plea for silence. “Let us not trouble our visitor with our quarrels. Please continue,” he hesitates, “Comrade.”

Dean glances toward the door, but it remains closed. He looks back at his audience. “Here and now, I can’t promise that I can make your life better. But I have faith that Jehane’s people believe in this cause, that they have dedicated their lives to bring reform to all of the Riven’s citizens. I don’t suppose you’ve heard of a speaker called Athena?” But as soon as he says the name, he sees recognition light their faces. “You have?” He can’t keep the surprise from his voice. “All the way out here? Although I suppose it’s not so unlikely.” He shrugs, a little embarrassed.

“We may be a small place,” Wilcox says proudly, “but we’re not so very far out as all that.”

“But I thought,” Mandy speaks loudly from her cross-legged seat on the floor, “that you rigged up that console specially to receive illicit channels and scrambled broadcasts.”

“Amanda!”

“Do you know comm-consoles well?” Dean asks swiftly, caught by this confession.

Wilcox hedges by going to the counter to pour more of the discolored aris into his cup and then offering it around to everyone else. “I’ve a bit of interest in that line.”

“He’s being modest,” Travis mutters, “and if that son of his weren’t hell bent on getting thrown into detention, he’d be damn certain to get accepted to tech school.”

“Do you think so?” Wilcox for the first time sounds angry. “After Council twice let rents be raised on my shop so I have to leave two decent locations downtown, and then they use the excuse that my premises are both unsightly and unsafe to drive me out of the third and force me to move _here_? My son’ll have no truck with _their_ schools, not while I still breathe.”

Before this tender subject can be expanded upon, the door opens and Brian ushers Castiel in. The boy’s eyes are fastened on Castiel’s hair with the rapt attention of an acolyte. In this light and the drab surroundings, the finger’s-length of blue roots coming in show up as glaringly as any painted on tattoo.

“This is Comrade Seraphim,” Dean introduces him. “He’s a physician.”

As if on cue, Mandy’s mother coughs. Castiel takes in the situation with a glance and within moments he’s set up his medical kit on a cleaned counter, already examining Elder Heckerling. Within half an hour, as first Mandy and then Brian leave to spread word of this bounty through the neighborhood, a good dozen more people arrive, yawning with sleep, clearly ill or injured. Two are carried in, too sick to move themselves.

By morning, Dean has Elder Wilcox’s assurances that Shanty will support them in every way they can and that he and his son will do what they can to repair the shuttle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Eye of the Tiger** by _Survivor_.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  _Edit:_ Oops almost forgot to remind you all that the next chapter will post on Wednesday this week instead of Thursday. Returning to Mondays and Thursdays next week.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now we have new friends, it's time to find our old friends.
> 
> * * *

Dean stands on the dilapidated roof of the Wilcox shop and watches the sun set beyond a range of red-hued hills. The sight, even after his year on Arcadia, still astonishes him in its beauty. He’s traded his white uniform for grubby overalls borrowed from Elder Wilcox and they fit him reasonably well, although they’re just a little short in the legs and sleeves. He also needs a belt, but beggars can’t be choosers. He’s come up here both evenings, yesterday he’d been joined by Sam, he wonders who’ll join him tonight.

A scrape of shoe sounds from the ladder. He turns to see a crown of blue-tinged hair appear followed by the rest of Cas. He smiles when he sees Dean, pushes himself easily up to the roof and walks across to stand by him, letting one hand stray to caress Dean’s neck. Two days of constant work running a makeshift clinic have left him looking rested and cheerful.

“I was thinking about Campbell House,” Dean says softly, returning his gaze to the sunset. “Paisley once said that sometimes you have to lose your home before you can find it. I had to leave Campbell House to discover what Bobby meant to me. And yet, there were many things at Campbell House that were worthwhile. I just didn’t see them at the time, because I was too busy rebelling, trying to get out. I didn’t realize how much I learned there that’s served me well these past months. So I wonder if what Paisley said can’t mean both of those things at once.”

“Waxing philosophical, my love?” Cas sounds both amused and pleased. “‘The modest Rose puts forth a thorn, the humble sheep a threat’ning horn: While the lily white shall in love delight, Nor a thorn nor a threat stain his beauty bright.’”

Dean sighs suddenly, a vocal sound, and rests his head against Cas’ shoulder. Cas doesn’t react for a moment, like this tiny act of tenderness surprises him but abruptly he turns into Dean and embraces Dean tightly against him. Cas kisses Dean’s hair. When Dean lifts his head to look at him, equally surprised by his burst of feeling, he finds himself caught by the maelstrom of emotions on Cas’ face.

“Dean,” he murmurs, making a strange music of his name that leaves Dean dizzy with a longing he’s never been able to explain to himself, much less understand.

How long they stay that way, clasped, close, lips a finger’s breadth from the other’s as they stare into each other’s eyes, he’s not sure. The sun’s rim touches the hills. Its glimmering disk sinks and hides behind the darkening heights.

As sudden as his embrace, Cas brushes his mouth with a brief, almost mocking kiss and releases him.

“Is the sullen Brian making any progress with the engines?” Cas asks in his usual gruff voice. “Or has he thrown another tantrum over having to work with Paisley? One wonders how deep his commitment to rebellion really is when he paints his face to mimic tattooing and thus shock his elders on the one hand, and on the other shows the same boring prejudice that most of these socially backward people exhibit.”

“Actually,” Dean says slowly, “I was wondering about rebellions. Sam’s and mine. And Brian’s, which I think is a lot like what we went through at Campbell House. Even Jehane’s. What kind of change is the Riven going to see? It’s hard to imagine.” He pauses. The last glow of daylight still lining the hills. “Do you know, it’s still hard for me to imagine that you came from across the way. From Terra, from the League. I know a little what Terra must look like. It can’t be so different from Arcadia, I suppose. But I think it’s easier to keep it in mind as an abstraction, a place that only has life like Paisley’s Tirra-li. A paradise, a memory, not a place that really exists.”

He hesitates, reaching out to brush a finger over the back of Cas’ hand. It’s a smooth, supple, long fingered hand, with rich, lightly bronzed skin that Dean sometimes suspects is artificially enhanced, although he can’t guess how or why. “You once confessed to me that you were sixty-four years old, that Master Smith was twice that. But that’s like Terra. I want to believe it, but it can’t possibly be true and yet it has to be.”

“Just give me more time,” Cas says, not looking at Dean. Watching him, Dean notes he looks no older than Jody. “I was making progress with the equipment I got from Dagon, but now that’s all gone with the _Lady Penrhyn_. The Formula is simple enough, but without the facilities…” He shrugs.

“What formula?”

Cas squints, turning to look at Dean like he’s amazed to see him there. “The Miescher Formula. I suppose you would call it life enhancement. Extension. Most people just call it the Formula. The medical term is more complex.”

“Cas, we have the drug Methuselah, but it doesn’t make you live any longer, it just holds off the effects of aging for a while.”

Cas makes an expressive face. “I got to look at its formula on Arcadia. It’s not worth the cost to make it and long term use breaks down the bonding—never mind that. That serum is just as primitive as the Riven’s outmoded hierarchical political structure.”

“I beg your pardon!” Dean jerks his hand away from Castiel. “And Terra and the League have something so much better? I remember your bitter words to Pamela even if you don’t.”

He laughs. “Dean, my love. A more advanced culture has never made the individuals within it any less hypocritical, or less prone to exaggerated fears, unreasonable hopes or simple greed. _That’s_ human nature.”

“Are you waxing philosophical?” Dean asks sarcastically. “Life may not be perfect in the Riven, but that doesn’t mean you have to denigrate it.”

Cas drops to one knee and availing himself of one of Dean’s hands, brings his palm to his lips and kisses it. “Forgive me, my sweet. I perceive I’ve offended you.”

Dean rolls his eyes, although he doesn’t remove his hand from his grasp. “You look ridiculous, get up.”

“Only if you forgive me.”

“Shit. All right. I forgive you.”

He stands with dignity and kisses Dean firmly. “We have time,” he says obscurely. “I’ll show you the League soon enough.”

Dean glances at his wrist-comm and pushes away from Cas. “We’d better go. Baby’s going to run that new set of signals that Wilcox devised. It’s our last chance to raise Victor. If he’s still alive.” He walks across to the ladder and pauses as Cas walks up behind him. “Is it real, the Miescher Formula?”

“Yes,” he says simply.

“How long does it make people live?”

“About a hundred fifty to a hundred eighty years of relative youth. Then a fast decline of about twenty years.”

“Fuck. People’ll kill for it, you know.”

Castiel considers him a moment thoughtfully. “I suppose they would. It hadn’t occurred to me. But in any case, the base is the most difficult part of the manufacture and I’m back to scratch without equipment. We won’t be having any wars over it yet.”

“Don’t we have wars enough now?” Dean asks and, expecting no reply, he turns to climb down the ladder then stops, staring at Cas. “ _That’s_ what you got the equipment from Dagon for.”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

“But I didn’t—it didn’t sink in. Why? Why make it now?”

His gaze, resting on Dean, leaves no room for any reason but the obvious one. “My magnanimous nature, of course,” he says impatiently. “Bringing the ambrosia of semi-immortality to the unenlightened. For God’s sake, Dean, you know perfectly well why.”

As the light fades, Dean can’t see his face clearly, but the taut intensity of his body is easy to read. “Yes,” he says softly, beginning the descent. “You’re making it for me.”

In the shop, Baby’s happily ensconced in Wilcox’s comm-room, hidden behind a cleverly disguised partition that itself is partially concealed by a large pile of old metal and rusting pieces of antiquated equipment in the far corner of the work space.

Wilcox looks up as he enters. His coveralls are grimy with oil and unidentifiable stains, but his broad face creases in a grin when he sees Dean.

“Got your console fixed, I did,” he says. Dean starts to speak enthusiastically, but he forestalls him. “It’s a nice piece, but I wouldn’t use it here. I reckon that’s how they caught you incoming and trained their fire so accurately. It’s got what I call a strong pulse and that hand-pack’s got no range, begging your pardon.”

Dean smiles slightly. “I’m hardly likely to take offense at that truth, especially after all you’ve done for us. I wonder if the engines—”

He shakes his head, a gesture Dean takes for a moment as a complete negative. “I never thought,” Wilcox starts with that ponderous way of speaking that marks him as a man of deep opinions and long patience, “that any good would come of Brian’s obsession with off-planet vessels. I told him it wasn’t any good setting his sights on a living he couldn’t ever get admittance to, but he kept on. I don’t say he’s fixed them, or even that he can, but he’s in paradise just working on that boat and if anyone here can cobble up a fix, given the damage she took, I think it’s not boasting to say my boy can.”

“I think you have every reason to be proud of him,” Dean says carefully.

He considers this seriously. “I won’t say he isn’t a stubborn boy, just to show he can be, or that he doesn’t make trouble just to get attention, or get the Heckerling girl into scrapes to prove he can influence her, but still. He’s the gift in him for understanding and coddling engines. Here now, that creature of yours seems to be saying we’re ready.”

He refuses to call Baby a robot and has shown a remarkable aptitude for understanding the basic messages in Baby’s music. Nor had Baby surprised him, when he first saw the ‘bot, a circumstance later explained when he lifted a similar robot out of his junk heap and showed it to Dean. The ‘bot has several obvious differences from Baby, larger and boxier for a start. Although Wilcox doesn’t say as much, Dean suspects he’s not given up on fixing it someday.

Dean clears a space for himself on a stool and sits down, watching the console. Baby has an attachment plugged in and, as one of the unauthorized broadcasts Wilcox has previously mentioned starts its brief evening’s program, she starts a coded transmission to the old man’s specifications.

“Now,” Wilcox speaks softly, “if we don’t get anything with this, there’s another broadcast we can hide in at sunrise and that will give us a broader—”

Baby blinks red. Through the soft static of the receiver a voice speaks, faint and desperate enough that it dispenses entirely with codes or identification.

“Thank the Void. Is it you, Smith? We’re in desperate trouble.”

Dean has no difficulty recognizing Victor’s voice. Weak from fatigue, but steady. He grabs for the switch, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste. “This is Smith. We’re safe for now. Where are you?”

They can hear Victor coughing even through the static. “I don’t know. But there’s an embankment here, studded with five metal poles and three dishes in a Maxwell configuration. We’re dug in at thirty Q seven.”

“That’s Parkes Observatory,” Wilcox says softly. “I know it. It’s a good thirty kilometers from here.”

“We’ve got a fix,” Dean replies. “We’re coming tonight.”

“Bring Comrade Seraphim.” His voice shakes on the name. Someone speaks behind him, but the words are muffled by static and distance. “Military’s still running sweeps, but there’s been none through here since last night.”

“Any news of Two?”

A pause. “All dead. Have you news from the _Lady_? We can’t raise her.”

Dean catches his breath and lets it out, feeling choked for a moment. Elizabeth dead and Victor doesn’t know about Abner. “We’re on our own, Victor,” he replies. “I’m going off now. Acknowledge.”

Another pause. “I see.” The hiss of static. “Accepted.”

The connection breaks.

Dean stands up. “I need a guide.”

After some arguing, Amanda Heckerling—Mandy—is allowed to volunteer. Dean keeps his own force small. Himself, Castiel, Jody, and the Mule—strength and speed. With some trepidation he leaves Sam behind, he’d much rather have his brother as part of the team. But someone needs to stay and be in charge of the remaining crew.

Elder Travis has an old six-wheeler van, marked for deliveries, which he claims is registered to someone on the other continent. Dean drives.

Mandy loses her bearings once, but the mistake proves fortuitous. Driving up without lights on the back height of Parkes Observatory, they see three military vehicles stopped on the road they’d meant to come in on. Dean shuts off the engine and lets the van drift into the cover of a large satellite dish.

Dean surveys the uneven height around them from the front cab of the truck he’s sharing with Jody and Mandy. “Why’s it called Parkes Observatory?” he asks.

Mandy shrugs with the blithe disinterest of youth. “I don’t know. Reckon it must have been a park here once. My mam once told me this used to be a courting place when she was a girl. I guess it’s lonely enough.” She looks out at the lights of the military trucks, sweeping in patterns across the series of embankments that shore up the hill itself. “Or used to be.”

“Courting?”

“Yeah. You know.” Mandy uses that tone of voice that suggests that she herself knows quite well and doesn’t want to say, but reveals instead that the opposite is more likely true.

Jody chuckles softly. “Oh, yes, Dean. You know. Cas once told me—”

“Leave Cas out of this,” Dean mutters grimly.

“ _Cas_?” Mandy murmurs. The way she speaks his name betrays her conversion to Brian’s worship of Castiel as the pinnacle of rebellion, cosmetic and otherwise. After a suitable silence, she let out her breath. “Gee.” She sounds disappointed, but whether that springs from her judging Dean unsuitable to receive such an honor, or from her own now-shattered dream of becoming the Chosen One—given the competition—is unclear.

“Shit.” Dean loosens his rifle strap and eases out his pistol. “Jody. Based on my reading of this configuration, Victor should be over— Damn.”

Jody echoes the curse. There are dark figures fanning out from one of the trucks below. Troopers on reconnaissance.

“Mandy, stay here.” Dean’s tone is adamant and not a little threatening. “Let’s go, Jody. You and the Mule downside, Cas and I covering upside.”

He soon loses sight of Jody and the Mule. His own face is streaked with grime. Fingerless gloves cover most of his hands. Cas has a hood pulled down to cover his head and face—all but his eyes and nose and they both wear the dark night-fighting coveralls issued for planetside missions.

The rough outline of the hill, the product of much excavation, provides good cover. They reach the Q seven line out from the center and circle out as far along its circumference as they can, given the terrain. So far the troopers haven’t advanced farther than a quarter of the way into the kilometer wide configuration.

“Good thing they’re cautious,” whispers Cas as Dean stops beside him after their bent-over run across a dark, flat gap between ditches. “I keep expecting to see them move in on the road we came in on.”

Dean doesn’t reply, but lets himself relax, grow still, stretching out his senses as far as he can. In the distance, he hears an engine idling. Far above, a shuttle passes over the city. Embankments slide away into darkness below them, traced by the nimbus of light coming from the trucks beyond, which they can’t see.

Cas’ hand tightens on his. “This way.” His voice is barely audible. “I smell the blood.”

He’s off so swiftly and silently that Dean doesn’t have time to question his comment. The ditch leads down, deeper, until their view’s restricted to a narrow band of sky. They turn a steep corner and run up against the stub end of a laser rifle.

Jody lowers it. “Just in time. We’re ready to pull out.”

It’s not a heartening scene. Four shadowy figures huddle over two prostrate ones on the ground, the pitiful remnant of Victor’s crew of ten. One of the figures straightens to reveal the thin crest of the Mule. Five left from One. Two’s gone entirely. Dean wonders what’s happened to Team Kappa on the other continent.

Cas’ already gone forward to kneel beside the wounded. Dean gives a curt nod to Jody and the mercenary moves out to establish a more generous perimeter. As Dean joins the group around the casualties, he hears Cas’ overly sharp rejoinder to someone’s suggestion.

“No, I don’t need a light. It isn’t safe to risk it, which any damn fool would know if—”

“Cas,” Dean says softly, realizing how close to the edge his voice is to complete loss of control. He reaches down and touches Cas’ neck. He’s trembling, shaking and his head is lifting to look not at the injured but at someone else. He’s poised to rise and lunge.

“Benny,” Dean says, knowing who it must be even as his grip tightens on the nearest thing to hand, Cas’ hair. “Get out to your left, on perimeter with Jody. _Now_.”

“You’re _protecting_ him?” Benny’s voice cracks and he bites back a sob. “You aren’t worth—” He breaks off, gasping in pain.

The body that interposes itself between Castiel and Benny is Victor. He’s gotten a hard grip on Benny’s arm.

“Out,” Victor hisses. “We’ve all lost loved ones. Go.” He shoves Benny out, following him.

Dean kneels beside Cas and wraps his arms tightly around him. He shakes in Dean’s embrace. “We need you now, Cas,” he whispers. “Don’t leave us now.”

Cas gulps air fighting and slowly his ragged breathing evens and his trembling stops. Dean realizes how tense his muscles have been when he relaxes his grip on Cas. Castiel gropes blindly forward until his hand comes to rest in a damp patch of ground. Blood seeps from a hastily bandaged wound. Touching the body, he feels along it with both hands, pausing now and again. At the sticky mess of his abdomen, at the rasping, shallow rise and fall of his lungs, at the pulse under his jaw. It’s a peculiar examination, until Dean realizes Cas’ eyes are closed. At last his fingers brush along the man’s temple and Cas shakes his head.

“Even in a hospital, we couldn’t save him. It’s a matter of hours.”

Dean feels a presence, still and unmoving at his back. He turns his head to see Victor staring at Cas.

“No hope at all?” Victor’s voice is so quiet that it scarcely penetrates the air at all.

“I’m sorry.”

A wet, warm drop strikes Dean’s face. He glances first at the sky, but it’s clear and black and studded with stars.

“Do what you can,” Victor says above him. “We must be moving.” He kneels briefly to kiss the dying man’s forehead, standing again to collect his three remaining men.

The other casualty proves to have a shattered femur. The team medic’s administered a painkiller and the soldier’s only semiconscious.

“I’ll need two people to carry her out,” Cas orders, applying a quick, stiff wrapping to the wounded leg. “And the Mule to carry Kelvin.” He turns his head toward Dean for his confirmation.

“Thank you,” Victor says softly. “I thought you were going to leave him.”

Cas stands. “In other circumstances I would, but we can’t afford for them to find his body.”

Victor doesn’t reply, but rather kneels to shoulder a large, bulky pack that’s clearly quite heavy.

“What’s that?” Dean asks.

“Our shuttle’s comm-console.”

“We have one. Leave it.”

“No!” Victor’s reply is bitter and stubborn. “Kelvin lost his life saving this.”

Dean bows his head and waves the others on. The line heads back along the ditch the way he and Cas came in. Cas walks past him to the bend, stops and waits. Dean gestures him on, but Cas doesn’t move. As Dean walks up beside him, Cas grabs him and tugs Dean in to him, starts kissing Dean’s face repeatedly.

Dean breaks his grasp and shoves Cas hard away from him. “Move!” he hisses.

Cas hesitates, reaching out, but withdraws his hand without touching Dean. He walks past him. At the top of the ditch Jody waits, flat on the ground, her rifle pointed toward the lights of the military trucks.

“I sent Benny on ahead,” she whispers as Dean crouches beside her. “One truck’s left. They’ve pulled back the team covering the left side, but the group on this side might intercept the wounded.”

Dean nods. “We’ll keep heading up. If they get too close, you and Cas run rear guard and I’ll draw them off.”

“But Dean,” Jody starts, “you’re our commander—”

“No. Victor’s senior. Don’t argue.” Dean stands up and starts a careful circuit forward.

They climb. Once he thinks he hears a muffle gasp of pain from ahead, but it doesn’t sound again. Twice, definitely, he hears a shouted command carry all the way from the distant trucks, caught by some current of the air.

Then the firing starts. Jody swears behind him, but Dean’s already moving. A moment later he realizes it is coming from above, from the direction of the van. Did Benny panic? Or Mandy?

Without really thinking about it, he scrambles up to the exposed height of one of the circling embankments and charges up toward the dish sheltering the van. He can reach it and clear the opposition before the wounded get there by their more circuitous route.

Or at least that’s his first thought. An explosion of light lights the sky as he runs, almost blinding him with its brightness. A hail of streaked fire and solid bullets rain around him so close he sees it hit and sizzle, with the heightened awareness that comes under stress, the actual spit and spin of dirt as the metal bullets strike the ground, peppering the path of his sprint.

A pause in the firing, like his attackers expect him to be dead and can’t believe he’s still running. Behind, far behind now, a voice shouts, screaming his name.

The dish looms above Dean. He feels his lungs begin to strain for air. Shadows move in the lee of the dish. He fires, coming on.

Bursting over the top to find himself in the very midst of a cluster of troopers surrounding the van. Mandy lays face down by the front tires.

Dean drops and rolls as the troopers open fire, coming to his feet with a spin and a sweep of fire across their ranks and dives for the cover of the satellite dish’s thick stalk. A deafening return volley sprays the base of the dish.

“Fuck,” he breaths, checking the charge on his rifle.

Fire opens up from below, but not at him. Troopers fall. Mandy squirms forward on her stomach to hide beneath the van.

“Dean!” He doesn’t recognize the voice instantly. It’s too desperate, too afraid, too frenzied to be _his_ voice. Except it has to be and it’s Castiel who bursts over the edge and falls in a barrage of fire from the remaining troopers.

An instant later, a ruthless line of fire from just below the top scatters the troopers who’ve shot Castiel, giving Dean cover to dash out and drag him back behind the dish. More fire from the other direction, killing in its accuracy.

Castiel’s eyes are open, trying desperately to focus on him. “I thought you were dead,” he whispers. He goes limp in Dean’s arms.

Dean feels like the world drops three meters out from under him and he falls. If the dish burst into flame above him Dean wouldn’t notice. He lays his face against Cas’ throat.

He’s still alive.

Slowly, he realizes he can hear the uneven labor of his breathing. The firing has stopped.

“Damn my eyes.” At some point Jody’s come forward to crouch beside them. “I can’t believe you’re still alive, you were dead lit from above, totally exposed, with every gun in this ten trained on you. You’re not—”

“Hurt, no.” Dean stands, turning to see Victor already at work loading his two wounded into the van. “Who’s your medic?” he demands of him.

He pauses, reacting. “Lafitte.”

“Benny.” Dean’s voice is low but adamant. “Get over here.”

Benny hurries over to them. “Did Jody get shot—” He breaks off, seeing who’s laying on the ground. “Void bless,” he murmurs. His face shines pale in the night. The Mule walks over. He and Jody lift Cas up carefully and carry him to the van. “You can’t expect me to—not after what he’s done to me.”

Dean grabs him by the throat and jerks him to within a hand’s breath of his face. “You save him or I’ll kill you myself.”

“Let’s go!” Victor orders.

Below, firing breaks out, too distant to harm them, but trucks are moving and one’s turned to display the shadowy cylinder of a laser cannon, pointing at the height.

Dean pushes Benny forward roughly, shoving him into the rear section and climbs in after him. The van starts up smoothly, backs out, turns and throws everyone in the back around with its sudden acceleration. An explosion shudders the ground behind them. Pieces of shattered metal strike the van like the opening onslaught of a hailstorm.

The van’s cramped with so many people. Evidently Jody and Victor are in front with Mandy. The Mule calmly kneels and rearranges the injured.

Cas lays on his side, awash in his own blood. Dean rests a hand on his blue hair, fixing his glare on Benny.

Lips tight, Benny sets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Miescher Formula:** _Johannes Friedrich Miescher_ (13 August 1844 – 26 August 1895) was a Swiss physician and biologist. In 1869, he isolated "nuclein," DNA with associated proteins, from cell nuclei. He was the first to identify DNA as a distinct molecule. 
> 
> **Methuselah:** is a biblical patriarch and a figure in _Judaism_ , _Christianity_ and _Islam_. Said to have died at the age of 969, he lived the longest of all figures mentioned in the Bible. 
> 
> **Parkes Observatory:** The _Parkes Observatory_ (also known as _"The Dish"_ ) is a radio telescope observatory, located 20 kilometres north of the town of Parkes, New South Wales, Australia. It was one of several radio antennae used to receive live, televised images of the _Apollo 11_ moon landing on 20 July 1969. Its scientific contributions over the decades led the ABC ( _Australian Broadcasting Corporation_ ) to describe it as "the most successful scientific instrument ever built in Australia" after 50 years of operation.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Dean can pick up enough pieces, they'll fight another day.
> 
> * * *

In the tiny hidden room that harbors Wilcox’s illegal comm-console, Dean sits slumped on a stool, much of his weight resting on the counter that holds the console. His face presses against Baby’s cool surface. As she softly sings, monitoring all bands for military communications, Dean feels the deeper, virtually inaudible hum of her inner workings as a gentle vibration against his cheek. He feels hot, and utterly tired. Baby finishes one piece and starts another. Dean doesn’t stir.

  
_“I wake up in the morning_  
_And I raise my weary head_  
_I got an old coat for a pillow_  
_And the earth was last night's bed”_

_“I don't know where I'm going_  
_Only God knows where I've been_  
_I'm a devil on the run_  
_A six-gun lover_  
_A candle in the wind”_

Behind him, the partition to the shop opens.

“Smith?” It’s Victor.

Dean lifts his head. Victor looks exhausted, drained of any will left to act except perhaps the primeval impetus of vengeance.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says quietly. “About Kelvin.”

Victor shakes his head roughly, like he’s trying to shake off Dean’s words. “What news?” He looks at Baby.

“Nothing new. If they continue their sweep at their present rate they’ll reach this area in about three hours.”

He reaches for the other stool and sits down, like his legs have given out from under him. “We might as well load now.” Victor lifts up his right hand, studying it with a grimace of pain on his face. “I got hit twice on this arm,” he says. “Didn’t even leave a scratch. I pulled Kelvin out of the shuttle after it exploded. He’d gone back to get the console out. It was too hot to face. I couldn’t bring my left arm near it.”

Dean sees now that the streaks on the right side of his face are ash, singed eyebrows and the dark, raised welts of treated burns.

“So I pulled him, with the damned pack strapped to his back, pulled him out with one arm. The fire burned off the sleeve. But there’s not a scratch on the arm. I don’t really feel like it’s mine.”

Baby reprises the chorus in the silence.

  
_“Shot down in a blaze of glory_  
_Take me now but know the truth_  
_'Cause I'm going down in a blaze of glory_  
_Lord, I never drew first_  
_But I drew first blood_  
_I'm the devil's son_  
_Call me young gun”_

“The engines?” Dean asks at last, no longer sure he cares to make an effort to escape if the shuttle is unrepairable.

Victor sighs and lowers his arm from the counter into his lap. “The boy said less than an hour. He’s having Paisley run one more test. But he won’t guarantee they’ll work. He’s out arguing with his pap right now. He wants to come with us.”

That interests Dean a little. He cocks his head and, listening carefully, he can hear Brian’s voice pitched high in adolescent anger. His exact words are impossible to make out.

“What happened to Two?” Dean asks.

“They crashed almost on top of us, obliterated their ship. Because ours exploded, I think their military thought there was only the one ship. We flew in close enough together. That’s why they weren’t searching very hard, until now. They had enough dead bodies.”

Dean rubs at the back of his neck, catches himself doing it and clenches his hand in his lap.

“And the _Lady Penrhyn_?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Brian said a cruiser came in last month. I guess Jehane’s Intelligence didn’t get the report. We saw the _Lady_ blow up. You must’ve been under cloud cover.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs.

“No!” shouts Wilcox from the shop, his declaration carrying easily through the partition.

“Oh,” Victor adds absently, “Comrade Seraphim was exactly the same when I left the shuttle. Unconscious, breathing fairly evenly.”

“Thank you,” Dean whispers.

Silence, except for Baby’s outro.

Victor slumps forward suddenly and puts his hands over his eyes. For some reason, the hopelessness of the gesture galvanizes Dean into action.

He stands up, whistles a quick _Disengage_ to Baby and puts his hand on Victor’s shoulder. “Come on,” he says, brisk now. “Isn’t there a rendezvous point out at the edge of the system? There were four ships here. Surely one got out there.”

“Past two asteroid belts, with a cruiser in pursuit?” he asks bleakly, speaking toward the floor.

“Well, I don’t intend to stay on this hell-forsaken planet. Do you?” Dean demands. “Who’s left to collect?” he asks.

“You and Baby,” Victor replies. “I sent Alex and my two crew back already.”

Dean removes his hand from Victor and lets Baby precede him into the shop. Brian sits brooding in the middle of a heap of rusting engine parts. His father stands at the workbench, tinkering fussily with an old-fashioned video console.

“I will ask,” mutters Brian in a burst of adolescent rebellion.

“You will not!” corrects Wilcox, turning around quickly. “These people have important work to do and they won’t want to be bothered by an ill-tempered scrap like you.”

“And what happens if the engines—”

“Excuse me.” Dean pitches his voice low. It has the desired effect. Both father and son whirl to gape at him. “The fact is, Elder Wilcox, we don’t have anyone trained in mechanics as well as your son. We could use him, if he can learn to submit to army discipline.”

Brian starts to speak. Dean waves him to silence.

“But I also understand,” he continues, “that you haven’t any other family but the boy and no one else to help you run your shop. Further, if he comes with us, it isn’t likely you’ll see him again for years. Perhaps not at all. I won’t ask you to let him come with us.”

Wilcox surveys the scattered mess of his old shop. “But you say there’s a place for Brian in Jehane’s army? Hope for advancement? Training and work after Jehane wins?” His words come slowly, like he’s weighing his shop against such prospects.

“A place in Jehane’s forces, certainly. If he works, yes he’ll advance. What lies beyond that is tied to Jehane’s success. I can’t promise you more than that.”

The old man examines Dean, his lips creased in a careful frown. He lifts a hand to encompass the shop in a brief gesture. “It’s a better promise than what I have to offer him.”

Brian seems to be holding his breath.

Wilcox sighs looking tired. “If you’ll excuse us Comrades, a moment.”

Dean nods in understanding. He, Victor and Baby go outside into the half-light of predawn. From inside, they hear Brian’s yip of joy.

“I hope that boy understands the sacrifice his father’s making,” Victor comments.

Dean shakes his head.

They wait. A short while later Brian emerges carrying a large bag stuffed full of whatever items such a boy thinks indispensable. He looks recklessly happy.

“Well, come on!” he demands, seeing them. “Let’s go. Blow this dump.”

“That looks like a heavy bag,” Dean says. “Comrade Officer Henriksen will help you sort through it while I go in and speak with your father. We have weight limits, you know.”

Brian’s yip is now one of protest. “But this is all important,” he argues, beginning to look sullen again. “You can’t just make me get rid of any of it.”

“Comrade Wilcox.” Victor looks grimly amused and not at all forgiving. “Set that bag down and open it up.”

“But I said—”

“ _Now_.”

Brian does as he’s told.

Dean walks back inside. Elder Wilcox stands again at the workbench, hands busy at the video console, but the effort looks half-hearted.

“Elder?”

He turns.

“I want to thank you. I’ll take care of him as well as I can and send you news when it’s possible.”

He nods, to show he understands. There are tears in his eyes. “Please go,” he says brusquely. Dean nods, echoing him, and leaves.

Outside, Victor’s ruthlessly discarding a full half of Brian’s possessions. Each time the boy starts to protest, Victor cuts him off with a few well-chosen barbed words, usually in reference to his immaturity. Brian throws the discarded items into a trash bin in the alley and follows them, complaining all the while, as they set off for the shuttle. After about a hundred meters Dean, without even looking back at him over his shoulder, tells him to shut up or go home. He shuts up, but his sour expression deepens. Baby sings softly:

_“Leaves are falling all around_  
_It's time I was on my way_  
_Thanks to you I'm much obliged_  
_For such a pleasant stay_  
_But now it's time for me to go_  
_The autumn moon lights my way_  
_For now I smell the rain_  
_And with it pain_  
_And it's headed my way”_

Entering the warehouse, Brian like he can’t hold it in any longer bursts out, “I bet anything that Mandy’s going to try to stow away.”

They find Mandy squeezed into the very locker Brian’s assigned to store his bag. Jody marches the girl off and, as Paisley’s test runs down, Dean steps to where he can hear Jody outside.

“—and what do you expect your Mom to do? Who’s she got to look after her?”

Mandy gulps an incomprehensible answer through her noisy sobbing.

“Is that so? Do you really suppose you have skills so necessary to us? I suggest you get home and see what you can do to help your Mom.”

Paisley shows the test results to Brian. He pulls them from her and, turning his back on her, studies them intently. Dean steps out onto the ramp. Below he can see the two figures in the gloom.

“And anyway,” Jody continues in a lower, more confidential voice, “I’m sure you have better plans for helping the revolution on Epping than Brian ever did. Now you’re free of him.”

Mandy’s sobs snuffle to a stop as she considers this aspect of developments. “An’ there’s a couple of younger kids he never could stand that I like well enough and they’d listen to me—”

“Exactly.” Jody gives her a comradely slap on the back. “Now get.”

Mandy runs off with a hasty good bye.

“I’m beginning to feel sorry for Security on this planet,” Dean says as Jody walks back up the ramp.

Inside, Brian decides the test is positive. Dean glances at Victor.

“It’s your ship,” he says to Dean.

“Then we strap in. Call in our guards, Jody. How soon can we lift?”

Pinto keys in Brian’s stats and starts to fix a course. Within minutes, they’re secured and ready to lift.

The old roadway that girds the warehouse district, although pocked and ragged with age, proves itself sufficient for a runway. Once the shuttle clears the ground, Pinto heads away from the city, keeping low running the contours of the slopes and ridges for almost an hour until they reach the shoreline. Then he banks steeply up and cuts for orbit. The pressures in the cabin grow, plateau and at last diminish slightly as Pinto levels the shuttle into a smooth curve. Radio traffic gives no sign that their flight has been noticed.

Dean stands and checks all their passengers, including the silent sheeted corpse of Kelvin. He pauses longest by Cas. He’s been given the single stasis chair to ease the pressure of the lift on his wounds. He’s unconscious but breathes with the same slow evenness of a sleeping man.

Next to him, Victor’s injured crewwoman moans in a low semiconscious voice, only half aware of their flight. Victor sits in the front, lips turned down, his face expressionless in grief, as he watches the changing view out the view screen without any interest Dean can discern. In the very back, Brian’s busy calculating on a screen, calling up schematics of the shuttle’s amplified engines and tampering with them.

Everyone else, except Alex and Baby at comm and of course Pinto, have fallen asleep. Jody cradles Owen’s bright head on her lap.

Dean returns and sits down next to Sam. Victor glances at him, nodding, and Dean sinks back gratefully and goes to sleep.

When he wakes, they’re drifting in the dark, empty field of space. The brilliant spray of stars surrounds them. He blinks and sits up. The stocky figure at the pilot’s seat doesn’t seem familiar and he realizes Pinto sits sleeping in the chair beside him, body straining against the straps.

“Victor?” he asks, slowly recognizing the person at the pilot’s board.

He turns his head, acknowledging that he’s heard Dean.

“How long? How far out are we?”

Victor checks the red numbers soundlessly clicking off on the clock. “Nine fleet hours out. In this boat, another thirty-one to the rendezvous point. We’re on auto until the next asteroid belt. Pinto’ll take over again then.”

“And Epping?”

“Nothing. Either they didn’t see us, or they don’t care, or they’re following now hoping we’ll lead them somewhere.” He sounds equally apathetic about all three options. “Although I doubt any ships’ll negotiate two asteroid belts to chase a limping shuttle. Our charts aren’t even complete for the edge of this system.”

“Have you slept?” Dean asks.

“No.”

“Shouldn’t you?”

“No.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but something in his tone makes Dean decide not to pursue the question. Victor goes back to staring out at space.

Dean starts to stand, planning to check everyone, until he sees that Sam’s already doing so. He retrieves his screen from his belt instead starts logging the Epping expedition. Eventually he finishes it. Others have woken up and Sam’s handing out rations. The shuttle reaches, and Pinto negotiates, the second asteroid belt. It’s the only interesting part of the trip.

Dean dozes, playing musical chairs along with everyone else. Studies engine schematics when he’s sitting with Brian. Watches closely as Benny examines the still unconscious Castiel, while he shares reassuring words with Bela, Victor’s crewwoman with the broken leg.

At last they reach the rendezvous point. Benny’s on comms and Pinto’s yawning at the pilot’s board. Instrument sweeps show nothing, comm doesn’t pick up any traffic.

They alter their position. Nothing.

Alter it again. By this time everyone on board is awake, except Cas. Even Bela’s refused her painkiller in order to listen. Their alternative is to limp back on quarter power, six days travel to Epping to turn themselves in.

In the expectant silence, the faint hiss of static sounds more like a person whistling through teeth. One small, frozen planet unveils its stark and lonely curve at the very edge of the transparent shield.

“Wait,” whispers Benny. The quiet word electrifies the cabin. “I’ve got movement on another band, barely there. But it’s not any band I’ve ever used before.” He tweaks knobs and buttons, careful and sure of his domain.

A loud scratch of static startles all of them, fades and then there it is. A whisper lost in the depths of space, barely caught by Benny’s expertise.

“This is the _Royal Sovereign_. This is the _Royal Sovereign_. Do you copy? Do you—”

Paisley shrieks. “It be ya ghost!” she cries, terrified. “It be ya old ghost ship. We got to run!” She fumbles with her straps.

“Paisley!” Dean’s voice shocks the girl into silence.

“Idiot tattoo!” hisses Benny, fiddling madly with his controls. “Now I’ve lost it.”

Paisley huddles in her seat, making a warding gesture with one hand that all the Ridanis but Pinto echo.

Silence on comm. Static crackles.

“No, wait,” Pinto says softly. “I’ve got a fix on the trail. I think it must’ve been caught by that planet.”

“And I’m willing to bet that’s a mechanical hail,” Benny says, glancing at Pinto with comradely agreement, until he remembers that Pinto’s also a damn tattoo and jerks his eyes back to comm.

Pinto’s lips curl up into a self-righteous sneer.

“Well?” Dean demands. “What are we waiting for? Set a course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Blaze of Glory** by _Jon Bon Jovi._  
>  **Ramble On** by _Led Zeppelin._  
> 
> 
> * * *
> 
>  _Royal Sovereign:_ **HMS Royal Sovereign** was a 100-gun first rate ship of the line, in the Royal Navy, she served as the flagship of _Admiral Collingwood_ at the _Battle of Trafalgar_.  
> She was first ship of the fleet in action at Trafalgar on 21 October 1805, she led one column of warships; Nelson's _Victory_ led the other.  
> As she cut the enemy line alone and engaged the Spanish three decker _Santa Ana_ , Nelson pointed to her and said, 'See how that noble fellow Collingwood carries his ship into action!' At approximately the same moment, Collingwood remarked to his captain, Edward Rotheram, 'What would Nelson give to be here?'


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean learns some things about the Mule.
> 
> * * *

They find the hulk of the vessel calling itself the _Royal Sovereign_ locked in a high, stranded orbit around the frozen planet on the edge of Epping system.

“I’m getting nothing but the same looping signal,” Benny tells Dean. “I don’t think there’s anyone aboard.”

“Bring us alongside in a flanking orbit,” Dean orders. “We’ll board. Do you think it’s really the _Royal Sovereign_?”

The answer comes surprisingly from Brian. He’s been frantically at his screen as they approached and now, with a crow of triumph, he lifts up his arm to display a finely detailed line drawing.

“It is!” he cries. “It conforms to the exterior specs for the old Highroad Fleet. Central impounded the four that reached here, but this one got away and there’s none left operational that I know of. Central never did build any boats as good. If this really is her—”

“It be ya sore hard luck,” Paisley mutters with determination. “Sore, hard, terrible luck, to tamper with such as were cast adrift from ya pattern so long since. It be wrong o’ them to try to find ya way back to Tirra-li ’afore it were ya fated time to travel. And it be wrong o’ us—”

“That’s complete nonsense,” Pinto exclaims, forestalling the comment that’s about to emerge from Benny. “A lot of superstitious nonsense.”

“Sure, and be it your hard luck to say so,” Paisley answers darkly. “I reckon your mater be sleeping ya poor tonight to hear you say so.”

“Well, she can’t hear me, can she?” Pinto says in disgust. “Being as there’s Void knows how many windows between us.”

“It be not fit to scorn ya pattern,” Paisley continues undeterred. Her confidence is clearly beginning to have an effect on the other three Ridanis, who cast nervous glances by turns at the pale hulk of the ship, at Paisley and lastly at Dean.

Dean unstraps himself, keeping hold of the armrest with one hand. “That’s enough, Paisley. I’ll take three to board. Jody, the Mule and,” he hesitates wanting to take Sam, but also needing him to stay on the shuttle to keep Paisley and therefore everyone else calm, “Victor.”

“No,” the Mule states.

Benny snorts in disgust. “What, are you superstitious too?” he asks, happy to include the Mule in the circle of contempt he otherwise reserves for the Ridanis.

“I suggest we keep this civil,” Sam interjects.

Dean speaks quietly, well able to read the Mule’s body language as they react to Benny’s comment. “Do you have any objection to the orders, Comrade?” he asks.

The Mule’s lank crest lifts slightly, like a breeze stirs the cabin. The look they shoot at Dean is hot enough to sear cold steel. But no reply is forthcoming.

“Then if you have no objection—” Dean starts, but even as he says it he sees the curl of the Mule’s hands, the set of their face, as they settle into a stubborn posture. It looks like they’re digging in for a long, determined resistance. Dean can see the Mule won’t explain themself publicly and certainly not when all attention is focused on the conflict. “If you’ll come with me,” he finishes, “we’ll discuss this privately.”

“But where—” Benny begins, knowing full well that the cabin is the only compartment on the shuttle that holds atmosphere.

“In the airlock to the cargo hold,” Dean replies, cutting him off. “Just don’t vent us, please.”

The Mule lets out a brief hiss that’s too Sta-ish for Dean to interpret, but stands and follows him back to the airlock. Dean keys it open, waits a few silent minutes and steps inside, shutting it behind them.

“Well?”

“You’re unfamiliar with Sta, aren’t you?” the Mule says.

Dean shrugs.

“Have you ever seen any Sta doing suited work? In vacuum?” When Dean doesn’t reply, the Mule gives a sibilant sigh and arches their crest again. “I’m Sta enough, Comrade,” the Mule continues, stiffly formal now, “that I too am unable to work suited in a vacuum, despite my human half.” Here the Mule’s voice descends into all too human sarcasm.

“All right,” Dean says. “You’ll stay here, for now.” He pauses, starts to ask why the Mule forced this private audience, then immediately thinks better of it. That pride can rear on even such a seemingly innocuous subject is no surprise to Dean. Certainly not with the Mule, who’d have no desire to express such a… failing?... in front of people who already have cause to be prejudiced against them. He keys the airlock open instead to reveal the expectant silence of the cabin.

“Alex, take comm,” Dean orders. “Benny, you’ll board with us.”

The four of them suit up and leave the shuttle via the cargo airlock. Victor and Jody, accustomed by practice to the experience, fire up immediately to cross the thousand meters between the shuttle and the bulk of the _Royal Sovereign_.

But Dean and Benny hesitate, side by side, caught in the exhilaration of freedom and the vast emptiness surrounding them. All the soldiers in Jehane’s forces are trained in suits, but for those still new to it, like Dean and Benny, there hasn’t been enough training to dull the sheer wild rush of adrenalin.

Dean clicks on his mike with his tongue. “After all those years on Kansas, this is hard to believe, isn’t it?” he says softly.

He hears Benny sigh. With an old instinct for Benny’s thoughts resurrected from their closeness on Kansas by the intimacy of their link within such immensity, Dean knows he’s thinking of his sister, so newly dead.

“Victor wants to bury his cousin in the Void,” Benny says at last, his voice quiet. “Just vent him. It seems strange to me.”

Dean stares at the infinite depth of stars, at the grey curve of cold planet beyond the _Royal Sovereign_ , at the slow, bright rise of the distant Epping sun above the shuttle’s top vane. “I don’t know,” he answers. “It’s not such a bad place to rest.” He moves to catch Victor and Jody in his line of sight and discovers they’re almost halfway to the derelict. “Come on, Benny. Let’s go.”

“Do you think it’s a ghost ship?” Benny asks as their packs fire them across the gap.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure. That Paisley sure seems certain about her superstitious—” He breaks off. “Why are you laughing?”

“Just surprised. I didn’t know you even knew her name. Paisley, that is.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” he asks defensively. “Sure, she’s a tattoo, but you have to admit she’s uncommon pretty no matter what her—” He stops speaking like he’s said something overly revealing.

“I was just surprised, Benny,” Dean replies. “You haven’t been exactly friendly to the Ridanis.”

“I still don’t see why I should be,” he mutters. “Bunch of damn—” The rest of the comment is lost to indiscriminate static across the line.

“Anyway,” Dean continues. “If it _is_ the _Royal Sovereign_ , there can’t be anyone left alive. It’s been far too long. I’m amazed we stumbled across it.”

“So am I. That signal was so weak it’s incredible we caught it.” Benny sounds almost irritated, but it’s hard to tell over the mike. “But you’ve always been lucky.”

“I have?” he asks as they reach the ship. Victor’s already located an outside seal, halfway around the curve of the ship, and he beckons to them. By the time they arrive at his position, he’s managed to open it, revealing an airlock that leads inside.

“Maintenance shaft, I’d wager,” Victor says over the mike. There’s easily enough room for all four of them and, once the outer lock shuts, Dean feels an immediate shift in his balance, a tug toward one wall.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Jody comments as the inside lock sighs slowly open to an empty, silver walled corridor. “You’d think it’s still alive…” She trails off as Dean takes the first step onto the _Royal Sovereign_ , pausing to read the narrow screen on his lower suit arm.

“We still have atmosphere,” Dean says. “That’s incredible, after all this time.” He glances at Benny. “Maybe there are ghosts on board.”

They don’t find anyone living and no bodies. Dead, decayed, or otherwise. What signs of human habitation there are have the look of tidy, shipshape readiness, like a crew is about to board, not like it has been carelessly or hastily abandoned.

At first they wander, rather lost, through a seeming maze of silver corridors. The barest gleam of light heralds their path. Eventually, Dean relays on the hand-pack back to Baby and discovers a fact that somehow doesn’t particularly surprise him. The little robot is completely familiar with the design specifications of the so-called Highroad Fleet. He uses her rather convoluted directions to lead them along more silver corridors to an elevator that, at his directions, carries them to a new deck.

This one’s gold, textured and patterned, glowing with an incandescent gleam, like the ghost of the ship’s past life. The way to the bridge proves almost deceptively simple.

The bridge itself has a refinement, an efficiency of design, that in a subtle way puts the ostentatious command centers of Ellen’s and Dagon’s ships to shame. Streamlined and sleek, like the _Royal Sovereign_ itself, it’s easy to find and bring to life the various consoles, to identify their purpose, even in the gloom of minimum lighting.

Benny discovers the comm and quickly sits down, going to work. In minutes, he has opened a line to the shuttle.

Jody finds and studies weapons. Victor settles in at life support and starts to bring up an array of functions on the console. Dean, on his way to the engineering link, pauses beside the captain’s chair.

On impulse, he keys in for the log, tries once, twice, three times. Uses the relay to Baby and tries her new commands.

The log’s been wiped clean. There’s no sign if the damage was deliberate or accidental. Thoughtfully, he crosses to the engineer’s link and, with Brian kibitzing through Baby, pulls up the function banks.

Suddenly the lights come on, brilliant and glaring, then softening to a smoother brightness. He turns to see Victor removing his head gear. Gasps like when the lights came on and then, catching himself as Baby sings a question, he relaxes.

After a few minutes, when Victor doesn’t die, he takes his own head gear off, quickly followed by Benny. Jody, with a grimace, keeps hers on at Dean’s command.

“Well?” Dean asks, gesturing toward the consoles, which have come to life at the hands of the interlopers.

Victor shakes his head. For the first time since Kelvin’s death, his face displays a look of animation. “It’s like,” he starts, slowly, careful with his words, “they shut it all down, all but the absolute lowest level maintenance and drive functions, just put it on hold and left. I can’t imagine what would cause them to do such a thing, or where they might’ve gone.”

“Or how,” Benny adds, his voice an echo of Victor’s astonishment. “If this _is_ the _Royal Sovereign_.”

“Can you doubt it?” Victor asks.

Benny shakes his head. “How could they just leave…” He sets his lips together, thinking. “Unless there’s bodies in cryo on one of the lower decks. Or just plain bodies.”

“I hope the channel to the shuttle is closed,” Dean says cautiously. “We’ll never get the Ridanis on the ship if they heard that. Victor, we need a working hold that can bring in the shuttle.”

He makes an affirmative noise and starts keying through the system files.

“All right,” Dean speaks, when Victor’s found what he needs. “You and Benny relay through Pinto and Alex and bring them in. Jody, you and I’ll go down to meet them.”

Dean seals his head gear back on for the trip down to the hold’s level. They take their time, wandering as they go. This time armed with a tight relay to Baby, who keeps them oriented.

The gold deck only has two other sections besides the bridge. A three-room suite comprised of tac and computer centers and a two-room suite that evidently belonged to the captain.

“Look at that bed!” Jody exclaims as they key open the lock to the inner room. “Four people could sleep on that bed and it’s freestanding! Do you suppose all the quarters are like this?”

Dean stares. The two rooms seem huge to him, at least five meters square each. He shrugs, tonguing his mike switch. “It’s an exploratory vessel, isn’t it? They might spend years on this ship without ever making landfall.”

Below gold they find the silver deck they’d entered on originally. Here are far more corridors, but the maze is quickly explained. This deck holds the crew’s quarters, medical, the mess and rec sections and a few areas Dean thinks might be labs.

After silver, the color of the walls changes again, this time to a copper sheen. Labs, a small detention suit of cells and a second and larger rec suite, fill about half of the deck. The other half they don’t explore. A single door labeled Green Room leads into it.

A large freight elevator takes them to the lowest decks.

“Well,” Jody says, examining the iron-grey walls of this deck with a practiced eye. “Now I feel more at home.”

Dean suspects there’s some pattern to the decks, as there was on Ellen’s ship, a pattern that Castiel would’ve laughed to see, although he can’t possibly guess why. They hurry past cargo holds, the weapons and engineering access, a maintenance lab, a second computer center, before they find the triple airlocks into the great hangar.

The shuttle’s arrived before them. After almost half an hour of misunderstanding Baby’s answers to his questions, Dean finally discovers it is possible to connect a pressurized tube to the shuttle hatchway and funnel the passengers off to an overlook with atmosphere without having to put them all in suits.

Brian, of course, emerges first, followed by Baby, Alex and Owen, in a clump then Victor’s crewman Mick, wheeling the stasis couch on which Cas lays, still unconscious. Lastly comes the Mule carrying Bela and after a pause Pinto emerges, looking disgusted.

Dean’s taken off his head gear. “Where are the others?”

“Where do you think?” Pinto says. The geometric lines on his face emphasize his derision. “Paisley’s telling stories about a third cursed merchantman when I left. You know, hailed by the ghost ship and didn’t cut and run fast enough. I think this one ends up trapped—gasp—between windows. Sam’s trying to talk them down, but…” Pinto throws his hands in the air.

Dean looks at Cas’ still form thoughtfully, wondering what he’d think of such a fate. “I’ll deal with them.”

Brian’s standing, face pressed against the plexiglass, staring out across the vast hangar. “Look!” he exclaims. “Two other landers. But just small ones. You’d think a ship like this would’ve had some larger shore boats, or recon yachts, at least.”

Dean lifts his gaze from Cas to consider the group assembled before him. A motley collection, without a doubt. Most of them stare out the overlook glass at the hangar, at the fine, impressive interior of a ship older than their great-grandparents and yet still as advanced. Still more advanced than any craft that Riven space, Central or Jehane, possess now.

“First.” He waits until they all looks at him. “Comrade Wilcox.” Brian turns, reluctantly. “Baby’ll have to give us a quick guide to the ship before you head to your posts. Keep in wrist-comm, in case you get lost. Wilcox, I want you to engine-access. You’re what we’ve got right now for engine tech.”

Brian’s mouth drops open, leaving him looking young and foolish. He’s clearly too stunned to speak. “ _I_ get to—” He swallows and tries again. “ _I_ get to run these engines?”

“Not yet,” Dean speaks patiently. “Familiarize yourself for now. I’ll send Paisley along after you—”

“That grimy tattoo—”

“Wilcox.” The sharpness of Dean’s tone cuts him off. “Who gave you leave to speak?”

Under the disapproving looks from the rest of the crew, Brian looks for the first time a little shamefaced, or at least sullenly submissive.

Dean transfers his gaze to the crewman holding onto Castiel’s stasis couch. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name, Mick.”

He gives Dean a brief salute, a gesture that surprises him. “Mick Davies, sir.”

Dean coughs behind his hand to hide his embarrassment at being called sir. “Well, Comrade Davies…” Dean hesitates, having forgotten for an instant what he meant to ask. “Yes. Do you have a specialty that might help us here?”

“I’ve some experience in weapons systems, sir.”

“Good. You and Pinto go straight to the bridge. I don’t suppose your Comrade …”

“Talbot, sir.”

“Thank you, does she have any experience in navigation?”

Davies shakes his head. “Soldiering, mostly, with a little training in comp and tac.”

Dean sighs, feeling lost again. Without nav, they can fill every other seat and still remain stranded in Epping system.

“If I may?” The Mule’s fluid question is surprisingly deferential. Dean nods, looking at them curiously. “I’ve some experience in nav.”

“But in Jehane’s fleet, on the _Lady Penrhyn_ , you weren’t trained in nav, were you? Why wouldn’t Abner have assigned you there?”

“You forget, Comrade,” hisses the Mule with a sardonic edge, “that in Jehane’s fleet there are Sta running nav. Sta have not taken sides in this human conflict, but they’re always willing to accept pay for services. Sta won’t work with me.”

Brian stares in repulsed amazement at the Mule, his nose puckered up as if the air has suddenly turned bad. The others, all but Pinto, look down, or away. Pinto however, looks at the Mule with acute interest.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Dean asks.

“You didn’t ask,” replies the Mule.

“Damn and you’re good at bissterlas too aren’t you?”

“ _Damn_ good at it,” Pinto says so sharply that the Mule shifts their gaze to meet the pilot’s eyes. They seem to measure each other, two whose work must mesh perfectly in order to guide a ship safely through the precise limits and angles of the vector drive. After a moment, like they’re satisfied, they both look at Dean.

Dean shakes his head. “I think we’ve got the absolutes covered,” he says, not quite believing it himself. “If this boat still runs and we can figure it out. Jody, you take these two to Medical. Do what you can to make them comfortable until Benny can come down and check them. Then you and Owen just roam the ship until you feel familiar with it. That should cover everyone except the Ridanis.”

“What about me?” Alex’s soft voice barely stirs the air. She has managed to lose herself in one corner of the overlook, hidden in swathes of loose fabric and the dark cloud of her hair.

“Relieve Benny while he’s in Medical.”

“I could,” Alex speaks tentatively, “but there’s one thing you’ve forgotten.”

“There is?” Dean asks, surprised not by this revelation but by its source.

“Food.” Alex purses her lips, giving her fragile features a remarkably practical cast. “Maybe I should go find the mess.”

Dean glances, startled, at Jody, but the mercenary merely lower her eyes in an uncharacteristically demure gesture that Dean suspects hides amusement.

“By all means,” Dean agrees. “You’ve just been appointed Steward.”

For some reason, this makes Alex laugh, but she follows after the others without further comment.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghosts ships and their skeleton crews.
> 
> * * *

The first thing Dean does on entering the shuttle’s cabin is to order Rainbow—in his most military voice—to stand guard in Medical over Benny’s examination of the wounded. Rainbow’s reflexes get the better of her superstitions and she snaps a salute, calls up her ten, consisting of Cursive and Diamond and marches them out of the shuttle before they can think twice about setting foot on the decks of ya ghost ship itself.

Paisley doesn’t budge. Her expression stiffens into one of mutinous resolve.

“It bain’t right,” she says stoutly. “It be _poor_ of you, min Win—min Smith, to play sore and fast with ya cursed ground.”

Sam looks up from where he’s sitting next to Paisley. He shrugs his shoulders, looking mournful he’s not been able to get through to her. Dean nods his head towards the airlock and tells him to catch up with Jody and Owen.

Dean lets Paisley wait while he peels off his suit and stows it in its locker. When he sits down beside her, he unclips his screen from his belt and keys it on.

Paisley regards him with a stubbornness that can put the Mule to shame.

“I’m going to tell you some things that most of the people on this ship and most people in the Riven don’t know.”

Paisley’s lips twitch. “Be it ya secret?”

“Not quite. It’s something people here’ve forgotten and I found out just by accident.”

“I remember,” Paisley says slowly, “’bout ya time we be trapped in ya spook’s ship, and min Baby showed us ya star map.”

Dean nods. “Think about it. Say it’s true, that long ago colonists from the old planets—what they call League space now—traveled out here and lost the way to get back. That later the Highroad Fleet, just a few ships, stumbled onto colonized Riven space and that the government impounded most of them, but this one wanted to go back and got lost—”

“Sure,” Paisley interrupts. “It be ya punishment for trying to get back over ya way when it weren’t meant yet.”

“Paisley,” Dean sighs. “Maybe it just happened. They lost their nav functions, or got vectored wrong by a miscalculation or… I don’t know, there are gas clouds and solar flares and I don’t know what else that can throw a system off. And somehow ended up lost, drifting and abandoned.”

“Or all died, and ya corpses be still haunting on board,” Paisley mutters darkly. “Sure, and they be wanting ya companions on ya bleak way, waiting out ya belly down day till Jehane come tae lead them back.”

“But Jehane _has_ come,” Dean says giving up cold logic for the warmer climes of legend. “We’re part of his forces. We’re the ones who stumbled on this ship after so much time. Don’t you think it’s time we took it back, to help Jehane take ya people back over the way to Tirra-li?”

“Sure,” Paisley whispers, rapt in the sudden illumination of her great prophecy, “and glory. I never thought of that.” She stands up. “We mun go, then.”

“Shit,” murmurs Dean to himself, an exhalation of breath. “I want you to go help Wilcox. See what you can do with these engines.”

Paisley makes an expressive face. “He smells,” she says succinctly.

Dean laughs. “I think he’d be surprised to hear you say that.”

“Sure. But it more likely he says that ’bout us tattoos.”

Dean rests a hand briefly on Paisley’s shoulder. “Yeah, he probably does. Just remember, he comes from a very… limited background.”

“Be it so,” Paisley agrees with a skeptical frown, “though at least he knows no better. It be ya cruel o’ Benny to say ya low words about tattoos when he knows how sore sad it makes Pinto feel. A’course,” she finishes, looking thoughtful, “that be certain sure why he says it.”

“You can’t judge everyone by Benny,” Dean speaks hastily, feeling both protective and angry over Benny at the same time.

“Nay.” Paisley lifts a finger and traces, unconsciously perhaps, one of the curling figures that decorates her face. Like Pinto, all her gestures hold an inherent grace that accentuates her beauty. It is, Dean thinks idly, some trick of fate that’s thrown two Ridanis of such particular and unusually striking looks together. “I reckon,” Paisley continues in a considering tone, “that your min Angel be from over ya way, bain’t he?”

“What makes you say that?”

“He be different. And ya blue hair. And anyway,” and now Paisley’s voice takes on the accents of a proven argument, “he be ya only one o’ all o’ you, even you, begging pardon, min Smith and min Wesson, excepting min Baby, being as she be ya ’bot—as treats us Ridanis absolute no different than ya others. Bain’t no one _I_ ever met done so, ’cept him.”

“Well and say it’s so, for the sake of argument. Then that means there’s a way back, doesn’t it?”

“Sure,” Paisley agrees cheerfully, “but he be ya strange, be min Angel. So sometime I reckon we be better off here anyhow.”

Dean chuckles. “We’ll leave it as a theory. Promise me not to mention it to anyone.”

“You don’t reckon they guessed it for theyselves?”

“Well, then, just wait until they ask you. Also, his name’s Seraphim, not Angel, Angel’s more of a…” Dean finds himself at a loss for words.

“Ah,” Paisley hums wisely and confines herself to that comment.

  


.oOo.

  


Dean leaves Paisley in the huge and confusing engineering hall with an ecstatic Wilcox and makes his way to Medical.

Comrade Talbot’s awake, looking haggard but optimistic. Benny’s managed to find her a mobile chair so Dean sends her, with the Ridani soldier Diamond, off to gold deck to see what sense they can make of the computer and tac centers.

Rainbow stands at the foot of a stasis couch, looking solemn. Benny examines Cas with prim reluctance and pronounces his condition unchanged and unchangeable.

“Look at those stats,” he says, pointing to the readout above the couch. “I got him transferred to this couch, figuring it’s better than that makeshift business we had him in before. I even got most of the functions to work. This ship’s remarkably well designed. All the systems follow along logically from your entry points and—”

“What about the stats?” Dean asks sharply.

“Oh,” Benny shrugs. “They’re all skewed. Somehow I just haven’t got that functioning properly. It’ll take some time, working with it.”

Dean frowns. “I think we’re better off with you on comm on the bridge for now. Learn the system as well as you can in the next four hours and then I’ll send Alex up for a quick survey of it so she can relieve you when necessary.”

“What about _him_?”

On the couch, Cas looks not so much asleep as closed in, like his essence has been pulled tight around and into himself.

Dean says nothing for a moment, gazing at him, at the sheen of paleness underlying the bronze tone of his skin. “Our first priority has to be to get out of this system, to find Jehane’s fleet and report this disaster. Anyway, what more can we do?” He looks at Benny, daring him to say he has deliberately not done as much as he can to bring Cas back, but he merely ducks his head and backs away from Dean.

“I’ll get back to the bridge, then,” he states and leaves.

“I can stay and watch him,” Rainbow says unexpectedly. “Be I’ve got ya bit o’ medic training—not as makes ya real difference, mind you, but I can tell ya clean bandage and ya signs o’ distress, or if he be coming round.” She pauses and continues on in a lower, more deferential voice. “Min Seraphim; he be ya fair to us Ridanis.”

“Thank you,” Dean tells her. He motions to the other Ridani soldier, Cursive. “I want you to find Comrades Wesson and Mills and send them to the bridge. Then continue with Owen to familiarize yourself with the layout of the ship. We’re going to need to know this boat backward and forward. Make a verbal log as you go.”

Cursive nods. He follows Dean out, separating off from him outside Medical. Dean, on his way to gold deck, gets lost once, but he forces himself to patiently retrace and reroute his path until he finds one of the elevators. It brings him to gold deck where he finds Victor loitering in the corridor. He looks up, hearing the quiet fall of his feet on the soft flooring.

“Comrade,” Victor says, formally. “I would like permission to bury my cousin. I think he would have wished this kind of solitude.”

The words bring Dean up short. “Victor. Comrade Officer Henriksen.” It’s not the nature of the request, but the request itself that stuns him. “You outrank me. You don’t have to ask _me_.”

In the softening glow of the golden walls, he sees Victor has aged in these few days. The stark white lines, the legacy of his years of hard work in deep-space asteroid mining, show more sharply on his face than before. Streaks of gray spray a fine mist of silver across his black hair.

“I don’t want charge of this expedition,” he says curtly. He pauses, mulling over the words and starts again. “You’re being trained by Abner for ship’s command. My rank’s purely soldiering and, by that measure, on this ship you outrank me. It’s in your hands, Comrade.”

“Fuck,” Dean mutters. “I need to sit down.”

A brief smile curves Victor’s lips, perhaps sympathy, perhaps the merest distracted response. “And my request?”

Dean runs his hand through his hair, wanting for the moment to be free of Victor, to consider what he has to do now. “Do you want any company?”

A slight, negative shake of his head. “I’d prefer to be alone, with your permission.”

“Then granted.” Dean starts to walk away. “Wait,” he asks, “who’s monitoring life support?”

“The ’bot. She seems to have the system well in hand.” Victor says with another wisp of a smile. “Dean,” he hesitates, “you should make Sam your XO. You naturally look to him first, it makes the most sense.” He nods as if to himself then walks off when Dean returns his nod.

Motionless, he waits until Victor vanishes into the elevator before he takes slow steps toward the bridge, like if he delays his entrance he can somehow put off the moment when he has to face squarely that he’s responsible for this tiny fugitive crew, stranded on a ghost ship in enemy territory.

Well? he thinks, lifting his hand, pausing before he sets it on the panel that’ll trigger the door mechanism and send him, all retreat impossible, onto the bridge. What would Bobby have said?

He smiles. Bobby, at least, never let circumstances throw him off-balance. Always maintain your stance and stay centered. Wasn’t that the first thing he’d learned? And yet one never stops learning to deepen that center.

With the briefest of touches, he opens the door and enters the bridge.

Benny glances up at him as he pauses beside the captain’s chair. “I think I can bring up the in-ship comm now.”

“Let me see.”

Benny explains the basics to Dean. Dean watches him engage the system and begins calling through the ship. As surprised responses filter back, he walks over to Baby. The robot’s singing happily, deep in the life support systems, which she proclaims in glorious counterpoint to be working perfectly as she brings each one out of manual call-up and into auto-function. Dean shakes his head and walks across to weapons.

He spends some time with Davies, puzzling through the array of screens and finally recommends he bring Baby over once the ‘bot’s finished engaging all full-support systems.

Last and most apprehensively, he crosses to stand between the pilot and nav stations. Seeing him, Pinto peels back the stillstrap and stretches his arms and legs. He looks tired.

“Well?” Dean asks.

He shrugs. “Just like any other boat. If this really is the last of the old Highroad Fleet, this harness is the model on which every Riven spacer is built. If I had to make a comparison, I’d say that the vectoring alignments are a little more fluid here. Not a problem for me, but a less accurate pilot might slide too far and miss their angle.” In the chair and despite the profusion of tattoos covering every millimeter of exposed skin that under any other circumstances of birth would’ve proscribed him from entering such a prestigious profession, he looks relaxed and completely at home.

“Pinto,” he asks quietly, “why did you decide to become a pilot?”

He considers Dean, his expression turning suddenly caustic. “Why do you think? A deep-seated hunger for freedom from the part of my heritage that’s marked me for life.” He lifts a slender hand to touch the geometric patterns that define and accentuate the lines of his face.

“Pinto,” Dean speaks drily, “your martyrdom has long since ceased to make me feel uncomfortable. Most people go into piloting because they score very high on those particular aptitude tests.”

“Do you suppose that anyone bothered to give me aptitude tests?”

“I don’t know. I always thought it was the one profession that didn’t allow exceptions.”

Pinto levers himself out of the chair and stands with one hand resting on the blank panel that separates the pilot’s nest from the nav bank.

He smiles, still caustic. “That’s right and I got the highest scores they’d seen in a generation. Now, if I may, I’d like to go off-shift.”

Dean nods slowly. “Take four hours. We’ll do a complete status check then.”

He leaves and Dean turns to the nav banks. The Mule is busy, keying in numbers, testing screens and logistics, all with a studious air of ignoring what takes place just beyond their shoulders. Dean watches them for a while.

“You seem comfortable here,” he says finally. “And you certainly seem to be taking well to the system.”

The Mule stops and carefully turns to give Dean the benefit of their full attention. They wrinkle up their muzzle in what he recognizes as a Sta-ish grimace of approval. Not a smile as humans might know it, being both more comprehensive of approval and less specific of humor.

“I thank you,” the Mule surprises him by saying. “For giving me this opportunity. I’ve long wished to invest my talents where they’re best utilized. Before now, I’ve only had intermittent opportunities to be allowed at nav and this system!” Their crest lifts and subsides in some emotion Dean can’t name. “A pleasure. Simply a pleasure. Clearly made for the less agile human abilities and yet curiously without the rigid framework necessary to Sta calculation and implementation. For instance, the preliminary _ought_ calc function—”

Dean stands stunned by this uncharacteristic effusion. Fortunately the Mule seems oblivious to his speechlessness and continues with great vigor of expression and tone to illustrate the details of the system to Dean. He’s further amazed by how much they have dissected of the nav bank in so short a time, but he thinks it prudent not to interrupt, even for praise.

Eventually, the Mule pauses, fingers splayed across a monitor, half-hiding the scroll of numbers that courses along underneath. “That’s the basic system. I fear that to one untrained in navigation the rest of the bank might seem inexplicable.”

“I think it might.” Dean allows himself a brief smile. Some instinct for the Mule’s uncertain temper makes him keep his voice neutral. “You seem well in control here. We’ll do a status check interlinking all systems in four hours.”

The Mule nods, a little absently, already engrossed in a new set of functions coming up on the monitor.

Dean turns away and sees Benny regarding him. He follows Dean as he walks to the door of the bridge, where he pauses, looking at Benny expectantly.

Benny glances at the Mule across the long width of the bridge. “How’d he get to be a pilot?” he asks in a low voice. “That tattoo?”

“His name’s Pinto,” Dean says in a tired voice. “And while you’re under my command, Comrade Lafitte, you will stop calling them ‘tattoos.’”

Benny stiffens. “What happened to _our_ friendship?” he asks tightly. “I knew you long before any of these people did. I used to think I was your closest friend.”

“You were. But I’ve different responsibilities now.”

“Yes,” he answers bitterly. “Now you have a psychotic lover and more important associates in higher places. But I still can’t understand why you favor a filthy tat—” He breaks off. “A damned Ridani so much. But I suppose _he_ must be some Senator’s son.”

His sarcasm’s too obvious to be lost on Dean. At that moment, the door opens to reveal Sam and Jody, poised to enter. The mercenary’s eyes widen, taking in the little tableau, and Sam hesitates.

“Actually, he is,” Dean agrees and walks through the door. It shuts behind him, leaving him in the gold deck corridor with Sam and Jody.

“What was that all about?” Jody asks mildly.

“Dorothy Bradbury, known as Athena to you, once gave me a lecture on something she called ‘the redistribution of wealth,’ which I didn’t pay much attention to at the time. But thinking back on it, I wonder if it doesn’t have something to do with what that was all about.”

Jody shakes her head. “Don’t start in on trade averages to me. You House miners are all alike, everything’s economics to you.”

Sam and Dean both laugh. “Please. Don’t accuse me of that particular vice.” Dean shares a knowing look with his brother. “Although I expect we absorbed some through no fault of our own.”

“It’s hard not to,” Sam finishes, “when it’s the main topic of every clan supper conversation.”

“Was it really?” Jody sounds sincerely curious. She smiles. “No wonder you ran when you had the chance. What did you want us for?”

“Actually, I’ve forgotten. But I’d like to spend some time just walking the ship to get the lay of her. I feel very uncomfortable not knowing my physical ground.”

“At your orders, Comrade.”

They stop first at comp/tac and find Comrade Talbot ensconced beside Diamond, working slowly but stubbornly through the top layers of the system, trying to get a feel for their structure. They’ve not made much progress, but Dean feels they can be trusted to be careful and as thorough as their limited experience allows.

“In any case,” Dean says to the others as they left, “we won’t get any real progress there until we hook back up with Jehane. He’ll have experts. We’re doing well to have cobbled together as much of a qualified crew as we have now.”

They take the elevator to the lowest deck and work their way back up.

In engineering, Paisley and Brian have established an uneasy truce based mostly on their mutual desire to gain a working knowledge of the engines. The Green Room, on bronze deck, proves to be a vast jungle of vegetation in a chamber whose dimensions and shape Dean can’t measure from inside of it. He chooses not to venture far. On silver deck, they stop first at Medical. Castiel shows no change. Then they explore the warren of crew cabins. Although small, each cabin is cleverly designed to give the illusion of more space.

They finish their circuit of silver deck with a stop at the galley. Entering the empty but remarkably well-appointed mess hall, they can hear voices raised in argument from the kitchens beyond. Dean recognizes Pinto’s voice first.

“—and anyway, I still say it’s unnatural.”

“Unnatural!” Dean can’t quite place the second voice. “You don’t believe that any more than I do, Jonathan. You just say that because—”

Jody chuckles.

Glancing at her, Dean realizes that her eyes are bright with unshed tears, looking both happy and sad at the same time. “What is it, Jody?” he asks softly.

“—and you know you’d never have had the chance if your own mother hadn’t been faithful all those years,” continues the second voice, forceful and definite as a self-confident orator. “So you can’t tell me that—”

“I think Alex’s finally found a home, a place she can call hers. Her—her ground, if you will.”

“That’s Alex?” But even as Sam says it, Dean realizes it is indeed Alex scolding Pinto in a tone of voice Dean himself has only dared take once or twice with the sulky Ridani.

“You ought to be _thankful_ that you’ve fallen in with people who treat you decently, instead of complaining—”

Dean can’t possibly imagine what expression Pinto must be wearing under this assault. “But Alex is so quiet.” Dean looks hopelessly at Jody, shrugging to make the statement a question.

Jody grins. “You never saw Alex lecturing the other Senators’ daughters, the other rich girls, on the unfairness of them using illicit birth control while other women went without. Not that those girls didn’t have every opportunity open to them in any case, no matter how many, or how few, children they had.”

“It’s all very well for you to call it decent,” Pinto says from the other room, “because no one sneers under their hands at you, or calls you names in whispers—”

“I’m sorry, Jonathan, but you are so self-centered, so _spoiled_ from growing up privileged, that you think every action any person makes is directed at you. When in fact most people don’t even notice you’re around. I’ve learned that these past seven-odd years, very clearly.”

“Are you trying to tell me that _you_ weren’t spoiled? The Honorable Annie Jones?”

“Of course I was spoiled,” Alex speaks quietly, in a voice more recognizable to Dean. “We all were, in Central. But at least I tried to look past myself to other people’s problems.”

“Well, I confess myself surprised,” Dean says to Jody.

“About Alex?” Jody shakes her head. “She always had her opinions. She spoke out without any self-consciousness. Her mother thought it was a sign she’d inherit the Senate seat, that she’d give up her radical leanings when she grew up, but I’m not so sure. Anyway, after Mendi Mun betrayed us and Alex got uprooted from the only home she knew, she grew into herself.”

“Like she no longer had a center on which to focus from?” Sam asks

“I suppose. Some people can find that center within themselves and carry it with them, but I think most people are still rooted in that sense to planets. They need a ground, a physical place to call home.”

“Do you?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been wandering for so long I’ve lost track.”

“—oh, Jonathan,” Alex says in a tone of utter disgust. “Why shouldn’t Dean wonder why you became a pilot? You know perfectly well you’re the only Ridani pilot there is. You also know very well that the only reason you did it was because it was the most expensive and infamous way to humiliate your father publicly, after he threw your poor mother off his estate when he decided to seal a bond with that fluff-head Lilith.”

“How do you know? You’d already gone by then, you and Jody and that Mun fellow.”

“Yes, but I know you perfectly well. After that time you managed to get into the Senate chambers and embarrass your father because he wouldn’t let you sleep with Ramiel’s daughter—”

“It seems to me,” Sam says quickly, “that this is beginning to get personal.”

Dean and Jody nod and they leave.

Returning to the bridge, they find Victor sitting at the auxiliary tac bank, trying to get the scanning system up. Dean discovers that Baby has long since brought online all the support systems and is now busy tinkering with the temperature readings of individual cabins, none of which are occupied or likely to be in the near future. He whistles her off and escorts her, while she protests in elegant four-voice harmony, back to the computer center where Dean has her take him, Sam, Jody and Victor through the main outline of the ship’s functions step-by-step. Pinto turns up eventually, looking none the worse for his heated discussion with Alex and he pauses to watch. Talbot and Diamond wander in from tac.

“We’re late for the status check,” Dean says eventually. “Baby, for now, you run comp.”

 _Dean,_ Baby sings happily, _it would please me exceedingly to serve you in such a manner. This vessel bears indeed a fine, if rather unintelligent, network. I confess to you that at my previous station when we started to discuss systems protocol, I was sadly disabused of my belief that this system went beyond the lower functions—_

Sam whistles an interrupt and Baby ceases singing.

Dean grins. “After we’re settled Baby. For now—”

 _Affirmative, Dean_ , Baby replies respectfully.

“Then everyone else to the bridge,” Dean orders, “except Talbot and Diamond.”

They file out, taking positions in silence in the bridge. After a brief hesitation, Dean sits down gingerly in the captain’s chair. It doesn’t bite back. He calls up the monitor and opens the log.

“This is Dean Smith, commandeering the _Royal Sovereign_ for Jehane’s Provisional Armed Forces. We will now attempt to bring all systems on-line. Comrade Wilcox.” From the depths of the comm, his voice answers Dean’s hail. He sounds nervous. “Give me the engines.”

The pause that follows seems—like a window—infinitely long, and yet the merest instant.

The _Royal Sovereign’s_ engines come to life.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hunting he shall go.
> 
> * * *

Victor is adamant. “We hunt down the cruiser that destroyed the _Lady Penrhyn_ and destroy it.” Glancing at Dean’s impassive face, he adds tactfully, “That’s my recommendation.”

“You just want revenge,” Sam says.

They’re gathered in the tac room, whose layout and large conference table looks like it was designed for such meetings. Only Rainbow and Cas aren’t there and Baby’s been left on the bridge, monitoring. Even Owen sits next to Alex, hugging his knees to his chest as he stares solemnly at the proceedings. The _Royal Sovereign_ rides at the very fringe of Epping system, broken free of its frozen captor’s grip, thrown through all of its paces except a window itself and proven functional on all levels that the inexperienced crew can cobble together for testing.

“Yes,” Victor agrees vehemently. “I want revenge.”

“We have to return to Epping Station in any case,” Dean speaks, tracing the monitor’s graph of Epping system with a pointer of light, “or Epping Far Horizon, to get vector stats so we can get out of this system.”

“But is it worth the risk of testing this ship in action when we hardly know her ourselves?” Jody asks.

No one ventures to answer the question.

“If I may,” the Mule says at last. Dean nods. “Our nav bank is woefully inadequate. We possess incomplete coordinates for Riven space and a curiously complete set of coordinates for an area of this galaxy that I don’t recognize and linking the two regions, contradictory information, which leads me to believe that this vessel got lost trying to navigate from Riven space back to the place I can only deduce it must have come from in the first place.”

“Sure,” Paisley says, “and glory. Tirra-li.”

Dean surveys the group, seeing astonishment on every face except Sam and Owen’s.

“Then it’s really true,” Benny mutters. “There really is a lost way to get back to the home planets. They really do exist back there.”

“That may be,” the Mule speaks fluidly, “but this ship has little chance of making such a journey given the gaps in its bank.”

“It came close enough,” Jody remarks.

Victor taps the tabletop thoughtfully with his real hand. He looks at Dean. “Jehane will want those coordinates.”

The words, simple enough, bring Dean back to the vivid memory of his first meeting with Jehane. He’d been convinced, perhaps still was, that Dean himself was from across the way, from the place Dean now knows as the League and that Dean could tell Jehane how to get there.

He remembers Master Smith’s warning. That a man like Alexander wouldn’t like knowing such power exists. Dean wonders if perhaps Jehane doesn’t want to go there himself, but rather wants to prevent others from going. Or from coming to the Riven.

The sudden flash of memory subsides as fast it came. Dean wonders if he’s second guessing Jehane. After all, the Riven can only benefit from the route back to the League reopening.

“Yes,” he says to Victor, “Jehane will indeed want to know.” He looks back at the Mule. “You had something more to say?”

The Mule hisses, affirmative. “It’s necessary that we gain a complete nav bank, one as complete as any Riven-wide merchantman can purchase. Or a better one, if we can get it. Even with Station-provided coordinates and restricting ourselves to small hops, it’ll be risky running the Highroad.”

“All right,” Dean says. “Then we’re decided. We follow the route of the cruiser, disable it and lift its nav banks, which by definition must be the best Central can supply, then destroy it.”

Victor smiles, grimly satisfied.

“But shouldn’t we try to take the cruiser intact?” Brian asks plaintively. “We could take it back to Jehane. It’s got an incredibly sophisticated engineering setup. Nothing to this ship’s,” he adds hastily. “But still—”

Dean shakes his head. “We haven’t got enough people to cover this ship. It’s settled. Four hours rest shift, then we head in for Epping Station.”

  


.oOo.

  


Epping Station doesn’t argue with the _Royal Sovereign_ when she appears and easily blasts out of orbit the military cutter that’s all that is left of the government ships that destroyed Abner’s tiny assault fleet. Station officials don’t know it took Comrade Davies three tries to get weapons locked on and firing accurately.

They also don’t know the scathingly tight beam of fire that severs the Station’s second wheel’s main stabilizer vanes is the accidental product of Brian shifting the engine’s rate of fire at the same moment that Victor, at steering, cants the vessel’s placement to allow Davies to pick off an empty cargo drone as a warning measure.

But as a result of the maneuver, Station officials evacuate the second wheel and hastily broadcast the last vector coordinates of the cruiser.

Dean delays their departure long enough to complete Abner’s directive. Carefully, because of the obvious inexperience of his crew, he directs fire at the second wheel until it’s irredeemably shattered. That the painfully slow pace of the destruction might, to the terrified thousands on Epping Station, seem like deliberate sadism doesn’t occur to Dean until the Stationmaster personally comes onto comm and begs him to either finish them all off or cease the game. He regards the ruins of the military wheel with distaste and orders the _Royal Sovereign_ on its way.

The Mule rechecks the vector coordinates at the auto beacon beyond Epping Far Horizon and, finding them honest, starts the countdown to window. A Sta-ish whistle flows from under their breath as they work, calling out coordinates that either Pinto or Victor second. Velocity, angle, shift. They get clearance from the beacon and a concentrated silence freezes the breathing of the bridge crew as they come up to “Break.”

They go through.

> _In the void, the hunter awakens. First, the slight movement of the face, breathing in the flavor of the air. The eyes open. The head lifts, the body rises, and a single hand brushes his skin._

And come out.

Slender long fingers close around Dean’s wrist.

He reacts blindly. Pushing up, twisting loose and punches. Pulling it barely, so that he can deflect it with a quick snap of his arm.

“Cas!”

Whatever congratulations the crew on the bridge mean to give themselves on negotiating their first window successfully die as every head, every chair, turns to face this new and utterly unexpected occupant of the bridge.

Ship’s comm lights up on the arm of the captain’s chair. “Comrade Smith. This be Rainbow, in ya Medical. Min Seraphim hae vanished, Comrade. But he were here, unconscious as he ever were, when we hit ya window, and now—”

“It’s all right, Rainbow,” Dean lays a hand on the comm. His voice sounds far more calm than he feels. “We know where he is. Stay at your post. Smith out.”

“Damn my eyes,” Jody whispers, then continues in a stronger voice. “Where by all the Seven Hells of Newgate did you come from?”

Cas surveys his audience with a slight smile. “‘For it is no easy undertaking, I say,’” he says softly, “‘to describe the bottom of the Universe.’ Although that seems a bit melodramatic under the circumstances.”

No one speaks, giving perhaps the impression that it doesn’t seem so melodramatic to them. The audio signal from the system’s auto beacon loops over and over on comm. No one pays it any attention, not even Benny, whose hands, which have been gripping convulsively the arms of his chair, rise now slowly to his throat. He makes a noise that’s more shriek than gasp.

Sam and Jody stand up. Dean takes two steps to stand between Cas and the comm station.

With shaking hands, Benny attempts to untangle a thin strand of hard plastic cord from around his neck. He can’t control his trembling and gives up, the black cord still ringing his throat.

“I could’ve killed you,” Cas speaks. “But I didn’t.” He shifts his look back to Dean. Dean looks relaxed, but the death grip of his hand on the arm of the captain’s chair betrays him. “Are you satisfied?”

“Get out of here,” Dean orders.

He smiles, gives a mocking bow in Benny’s direction and leaves the bridge.

“What in—”

“How did—”

“Void bless, he must be—”

“Silence,” Dean snaps. “Comrade Mills, get that crap off Lafitte’s neck. The rest of you, plot our course. We can’t afford to lose any more time tracking down that cruiser. Is that understood?”

There’s a brief pause. Then the Mule starts to call in the beacon’s calculations and Victor gets Brian on comm and asks for a new velocity.

Dean motions to Sam to take the captain’s chair and leaves the bridge. Cas’ waiting for him in the corridor. Dean marches past him into the empty tac conference room. Cas follows meekly.

When the door shuts behind them, closing them into the half-lit, still room, Dean turns and throws his arms around Cas, embracing him tightly.

“Dean, my love,” Cas says softly as he cradles Dean against himself, kissing his neck. “This is the first utterly spontaneous gesture of affection you’ve ever made toward me.”

Dean pushes away from him as suddenly as he hugged him and paces the length of the room to stand at the far end, the unlit table between them. “I thought you might die,” he says harshly.

Cas pulls out a chair and sits down, leaning his elbows on the table, his chin in his cupped palm, regarding Dean with a mocking expression. “What? Are you sorry I didn’t?”

“You know damn well—” he breaks off. Stands quietly for a moment and just breathes, willing himself to relax. A tumult of joy, fury and fear make it difficult for him to think clearly. The dim shapes of chairs and table seem like unanswered questions. He can make out their substance, but none of their details.

Cas watches Dean, but doesn’t speak.

“Don’t you dare mock me!” Dean growls. “After your second attack on Benny, I could’ve gotten you transferred, or detained. No one would’ve blamed me if I had.”

Cas lowers his hands, looking serious. “But you didn’t,” he says softly.

Since there’s no answer to the truth, Dean doesn’t attempt one. “You must know,” he says at last, “that no one on this ship is going to feel safe, not after that.”

Castiel dismisses the comment with an impatient gesture. “Tell them to lock their doors.”

“Would it make any difference?”

“No, not unless they can lock-code it on manual. But how are they to know that if you and I don’t tell them?”

“I refuse to lie about something this serious. Is it true? Were you still unconscious when we broke into the window?”

He shrugs, untroubled. “I suppose I must’ve been.”

“You were badly wounded.”

He puts a hand on the medical gown, over the spot where he had been shot. “Was I? I’m not now. Do you want to see?”

“No. I don’t.” Dean stands perfectly still. “How? Not only did you somehow get off the stasis couch and somehow walk all the way from Medical to the bridge without knowing the layout of this ship—”

“Oh,” Castiel says easily, “it follows the standard layout for League exploratory vessels. They’re very efficiently designed.”

“— _but_ ,” Dean continues more forcefully, “you’re evidently completely healed of a potentially mortal wound.”

He considers this thoughtfully. “No, I don’t think it would have been mortal. Bloody, yes and quite a bit of damage to the outer tissue, but I expect that loss of consciousness came from blood loss rather than—”

“Cas!”

“Dean.” He stands up. “I told you once that I no longer experience windows the way others do. Temporality as you understand it doesn’t exist inside a window, thus I can heal, or walk, or love—”

“Or kill.”

“Or kill,” he agrees pleasantly, “in a space of time that to you is only an instant.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why.” He goes to stand by the door. “And that’s the truth. I’ll remind you again that I didn’t kill Benny, when I could’ve. Now if you’ll excuse me.”

“Where are you going?” Dean asks sharply.

It’s too dim to see his expression, but Dean thinks he smiles. “There’s a magnificent lab attached to Medical. I think it’s time I begin serious work on the Miescher Formula. I don’t intend to lose you, Dean, not before _I_ die.” He makes a gesture toward Dean, thinks better of it and leaves, his words hanging almost like a threat behind him in the quiet room.

Dean sits down. The soft cushioning of the chair seems to shift, to mold itself to his contours, altering each time he moves. He contemplates the dark room for a while, torn between a fierce joy that Cas is well enough to be maddening and the growing fear that Dean is far out of his depth in trying to deal with Cas. He wonders if it’s his unpredictability that endears Cas to him.

I must be sick in the head to find that quality attractive, he thinks. He’s brought a man on board this ship who can walk through windows and whose very unpredictability can be a threat to the entire crew. And yet, he _hadn’t_ harmed Benny, this time, and he’d never threatened anyone else.

“I’m already making new excuses for him,” he mutters to himself. Grimacing, he calls up the charts on the tac table and starts to consider their options.

In this system it’s easy. There’s one way in and one way out. Over the next two fleet days, much to his surprise, they pass through four more such systems. Single roads that lead in one direction. The cruiser left Epping on an obscure but direct route toward the fringes of Riven space. Because the _Royal Sovereign’s_ charts for the Riven are incomplete, it’s difficult to estimate where they’re headed, but the beacons and tiny manned stations they hail and leave behind give them one piece of inadvertently welcome information. They’re gaining on the cruiser and they have a name for it. _Santa María_.

Brian spends most of his off-shift hours reconstructing the specs of the cruiser that he’d managed, more by luck than by skill, to get a look at on Epping’s computer net. Dean studies them with Sam, Victor and Mick, formulating a plan.

To the unspoken, but unsubtle, relief of the bridge crew, Cas spends most of his time in the medical lab and he carefully seals it when he’s gone, letting no one enter, not even Dean and Baby. He puts Comrade Talbot in some modified form of traction and in five days he declares the broken femur cleanly knit and lets her out to walk, albeit gingerly. When others profess amazement at this swift recovery, Paisley going so far as to start a rumor among the other Ridani that he has supernatural powers of healing, Cas merely looks indignant and lets Dean know in scathing terms what he thinks of the medical technology of the Riven if it’s fallen so far as to have no better means of dealing with fractures than to let them heal at the agonizingly slow rate of unaugmented osteogenesis.

After six days following the _Santa María’s_ trail, the Mule turns to Dean and informs him, with a slightly sardonic and very human inflection of the brow, that the next window will bring them to Beaconsfield.

“Beaconsfield!” He turns to look at Sam as a rush of memory engulfs him. Their escape from the ship of alien Kapellans. Their separation from Paisley. The brief conversations with the strange Sta imprisoned next to Dean whom he now knows is not truly a Sta at all.

“We’re receiving contradictory information from the beacon here,” Benny says, bringing Dean’s attention back to the present. “Evidently there’s some kind of strike on Beaconsfield downside. I guess the _Santa María_ was sent in to put it down.”

“What’s the contradictory information?” Sam walks over to stand next to Dean’s chair. They don’t have the crew to man multiple shifts but Dean’s named his brother as his 2IC because someone needs to be on the bridge at all times. They rarely get to spend much time together and as such the brothers often spend their spare time on the bridge.

Benny frowns. “Central seems to have slapped a cease trade order on Beaconsfield system. I’d suppose they’re trying to cut it off by stopping supply. But embedded in that loop’s a second message asking for help, with two references to Jehane.”

Dean taps his fingers on the console, measuring his crew with a sweeping glance around the gold sheen of the bridge. “Looks like help’s coming. Let’s go in at the highest velocity we can run.”

They come into Beaconsfield system screaming, alarms on, comm silent, cutting close as only Pinto can so that they emerge far closer to Beaconsfield planet itself than any normal vessel would, and cover the remaining distance at accelerated in-system speeds.

They shift course when they get their first fix on the _Santa María_ and plot a close targeting run pass her orbit. But after three unanswered identification hails and two threatening ones, the _Santa María_ pulls out of orbit and runs.

They chase her past Brighton system, braking hard for hours in-system to try to match velocities. The _Santa María_ eventually banks and tries to shake them by veering at the last minute into an unexpected vector, but Pinto catches an even sharper angle and they come out through the window close enough behind her to corner her just sunside of the asteroid belt that rings Kansas system.

The _Santa María_ banks to fire, but Dean watches this show of force dispassionately as he sets his plan in motion. It comes down to three tangible aspects. Even after factoring in an inexperienced and overtired crew, the _Royal Sovereign_ has better shields, better speed and more firepower.

“Take out their engines,” Dean calls as he wonders what, after more than two centuries, the so-distant League fields as battle cruisers these days. With this ship, he might someday be in a position to find out. Except that the _Royal Sovereign_ belongs to Jehane’s revolution, not to him. He smiles, fingering the smooth ends of the console arms and wonders at his own presumption in sitting in this chair.

“They’ve returned fire,” Jody calls from scan. “I’m tracking it—damn, I lost it.”

“I’ve got it,” Benny says.

“Evasive measures,” Dean orders.

On the screen above, Dean can see a faint, magnified image of the _Santa María_ , between them only the void of space and the drifting bulk of an asteroid. The sight of it, rough-hewn, tumbling like a mote in a vast, unseeing eye, reminds him to his surprise of Nick Munroe, the asteroid miner who’d been his lover for one season. He’d not been unlike Victor, burly and cheerful and a little short of temper, a quality he’d mistaken at the time for unpredictability but to Dean’s disappointment Nick’d proven as predictable as all the other people Dean knew.

A distant flare, an explosion.

“Number two engine disabled,” Davies announces.

“We’re receiving fire—now,” Benny says, sounding nervous.

Dean feels a shudder through the hull, but it’s slight.

“Number four engine disabled. Number three engine—” Davies continues.

“We’re receiving on comm,” says Benny. “The _Santa María_ wishes to surrender unconditionally.”

“Tell them they’ve got one fleet hour to evacuate their vessel. Unconditionally.” Dean stands. “Victor.”

He stands also, nods at Dean and leaves the bridge.

“I still think,” Jody speaks, “that at least one more person ought to go with him.”

“I can’t afford to risk more than one. I’ve already had to argue Brian down when he wanted us to carry the boat intact to Jehane. This is Victor’s idea. Something to do with an old Henriksen House custom.”

Jody looks skeptical. “For what? So he can avenge himself personally for Kelvin’s death? I’ve always thought revenge a ridiculously impractical notion. Or maybe I’ve just been too busy surviving all these years to have the leisure to indulge myself in it.”

“The _Santa María’s_ complying with the evacuation order,” Benny states. “They request that their shuttles be allowed to set a course for Kansas Station.”

Dean walks across to the console Victor vacated and sits down in the chair. “Tell them affirmative. Give them the coordinates Baby plotted. That should give us plenty of time.”

“I don’t understand,” Benny says darkly, “why we have to stop at Station. Or why you want to go downside.”

“Unfinished business,” Dean replies, as he concentrates on the information flowing across the three screens controlled by steering that he only imperfectly understands. “Are you sure you don’t want to go down with Sam and I to see your father?”

“No.” Benny’s voice is hard and unforgiving. “I don’t want to see my father. Why should I?”

“But I’m—”

“Your grandfather didn’t betray you. Don’t expect me to be generous. Not after Grand-mère. And—Elizabeth.”

Figures track across the screens. He waits a silent, pensive moment before turning to Mick. “Fix on those two asteroids in epsilon octant. I need a better feel for this. Let’s do some target practice.”

The first proves a sloppy job, but the second pulverizes neatly just as the signal comes in from Victor that he’s docked to the _Santa María_ in one of the two-man short-hop skiffs whose controls he, Brian and Baby figured out between them.

“The _Santa María_ is fully evacuated,” he says across the delay of space. His voice fades in and out, caught in a loop of static. “I have dismantled their nav bank and loaded it on the skiff, together with three duplicates copied onto crystal for backup. Detonators are set for point three two.”

Dean stands from steering and returns to the captain’s chair. “You’re cleared to return, Comrade. End transmission. Jody, what about the _Santa María’s_ shuttles?”

“They’re in pattern and heading sunward on the specified course. They should arrive in, let me see… Damn, I’m no good with this stuff.”

“One fleet week, I believe, Comrade Smith,” the Mule interposes in a soft hiss. “Do you need more specific figures?”

“No. Let’s intercept Victor and head in ourselves.”

They pick up Victor’s skiff just as the _Santa María_ blossoms, a brief, brilliant star among untold others.

Kansas Station has adopted a practical course of stoic neutrality. Some of the malcontents from Beaconsfield have made their way here and been exiled to the Ridani sectors of Station, but none have been arrested. Faced with a large and clearly destructive vessel bearing uncounted numbers of Jehanish partisans, Station officials prudently remind its commander of system policy. All downside shuttle trips must be cleared through their offices, or else activate automatic defense systems. They assure him that opinions on planet are not nearly as sympathetic to Jehane’s cause as they are in the out-system mines and on Station.

“They’re lying,” Benny says harshly. “At least about that automatic defense system. Bootleggers went back and forth all the time.”

“Unless they set up a system after you left,” Sam replies. “Maybe Central forced them to.”

“In any case, Benny, don’t you think it behooves us to make the best possible impression on them?” Dean asks. “As Jehane’s representatives? To at least attempt to sway the downsiders? The House miners?”

Victor looks at Dean curiously. “Do I scent a conversion to messianic Jehanism in you, Comrade?”

“You know, Victor, I find that after all this time and despite the circumstances under which we left, I’d like to protect my family’s House from the worst of the fallout should Jehane triumph and they’re still supporting the old government. Perhaps this is my way of helping them.”

“Try to get the Sar to profess neutrality,” Sam shrugs.

“What,” Jody asks, “if Station’s lying and they’re just sitting in wait to throw you in prison?”

“That’s why you’re coming with me, both of us fully armed and we leave everyone on board except a shuttle pilot and one other soldier, so that if they do arrest us Sam can cut and run for Jehane’s fleet.”

“But they’ll need Pinto—”

“We have another shuttle pilot.” Dean taps the comm on his console. “Medical? Rainbow? I want you to meet Comrade Mills in bay one in full rig in a half hour. Tell Comrade Seraphim that we need his services as well.”

  


.oOo.

  


The corridors of Kansas Station, rather inevitably, seem less impressive to Dean than they did during his previous visit. An escort meets them at their berth. He leaves Cas and Rainbow on the shuttle and he and Jody walk along the familiar corridors to the Portmaster’s office.

They wait almost an hour before the Assistant Portmaster can see them and, after a long and pointless discussion, are sent on to a nicer chamber to wait for the Portmaster herself. After another hour and just before Dean guesses they’re to be shown into the Portmaster’s office, he demands they be given dinner.

The Portmaster’s aides obligingly usher them off to a nearby plush bar and the Portmaster arrives at the same time their food does. Jody looks tolerably amused, but says nothing.

Dean keeps the talk politely neutral until they’ve finished their meal. By its end he feels that he and the Portmaster understand each other fairly well. The Portmaster suggests they move to a private room in the back of the bar and it is as they’re crossing to this room that Dean happens to glance at the vid screen at the end of the bar.

A familiar face. It takes him a moment to place it and as he pauses, the voice-over and his recollections hit him at the same moment.

“—the victim was strangled and mutilated, found less than one hour ago in corridor Q7, a little-used warehouse sector adjoining Q8, where the victim was said to frequent the string of bars well known to that sector. Security has no current leads, but all traffic in Station is now subject to search and screening. According to the latest report, the victim was last seen engaged in a fight in the Black Spur bar with an unidentified assailant. The two men were pulled apart by on-lookers and both left the establishment separately. Security’s now searching for a man answering to the description of—”

Jody turns back and taps a quick, unobtrusive warning touch on Dean’s elbow. “Portmaster’s waiting.”

The picture on the vid has changed, to an exterior of Black Spur, but Dean knows who the victim was. Nick Munroe, the asteroid miner who, some five years ago, was his lover for however brief and insignificant a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Santa María_ : **La Santa María de la Inmaculada Concepción** (Spanish for: **The Holy Mary of the Immaculate Conception** ), or **La Santa María** , originally **La Gallega** , was the largest of the three ships used by _Christopher Columbus_ in his first voyage across the Atlantic Ocean in 1492.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A return to Campbell House.
> 
> * * *

He ignores Jody and takes a moment to trigger his wrist-comm. Another moment to sort out the voice replying from the general hubbub of the bar.

“Rainbow? Is that you?”

“Rainbow reporting, min Smith. I be at ya comm.”

“Where’s Cas?”

A pause. “I bain’t ya certain, min.” Even over the comm-link, Dean can hear the apprehension in Rainbow’s voice. “I told him we were meant to stay on ya boat, but he were certain sure he meant just tae stretch his legs, so he says, min. Nay, he says he meant tae take ya flavor of ya air. And ya sudden come he back again and tells me tae stay on comm, and off he goes again. I knew it be ya wrong, but what could I do tae stop him?”

“Nothing, Rainbow,” Dean says dully. “You’ve done fine. Stay at your post.”

“I reckon he were ya tired o’ shipboard, min. It sure be true that—” Rainbow interrupts herself. “Wait. That be min Seraphim at ya lock now, min. Be you wishing tae talk to him?”

“No.” Through the sharpness of his voice, Dean becomes aware for the first time that Jody, the Portmaster and her aide are watching him speculatively. “No, Rainbow. That’s what I wanted to know. We should be done fairly soon. Smith out.”

“What’s that all about?” Jody asks in a carefully loud voice. “I couldn’t hear the crewman.”

“Just checking the shuttle’s status. They relayed that the _Royal Sovereign’s_ maintaining orbit.” Dean talks as he walks up beside Portmaster, knowing the elderly woman is listening.

“The _Royal Sovereign_? But surely that’s the name of the old ghost ship of legend—”

Dean changes the details but not the essentials of the story and, with a ruthlessness he has not previously realizes he possesses, he alters the course and tone of the conversation so it takes fifteen minutes and not an hour. He and Jody leave with full clearance to take a shuttle downside from a bemused Portmaster.

“Damn my eyes,” Jody says as she and Dean outdistance their escort. “You made minced cable out of her, Dean. What brought that on—”

“Jody,” Dean interrupts sharply. “Let’s just get out of here.”

He keys the lock of their berth and seals it behind them. In the cabin, he at first only sees Rainbow, sitting at comm.

“Where’s—” But he sees him, stretched out on a row of seats, asleep. Dean simply stares at him for a moment. He’s deeply asleep, relaxed and breathing evenly. There’s no evidence on his clothing, his hands, anywhere on his person.

“Did I believe there would be?” Dean says aloud.

“That there’d be what?” Jody asks, trying to make sense of Dean’s humor and only growing more bewildered.

“How long?” Dean asks Rainbow.

The Ridani soldier shrugged. “He came in when I be talking to you, min. He be in ya sleep sure as soon as he come in.” She looks bewildered.

“Wait a minute,” Jody speaks. “I thought you were both on board the entire time.”

“What the Hells am I going to do?” Dean asks in frustration.

Cas opens his eyes. He focuses on Dean immediately, but doesn’t sit up straightaway. When he does—into a lengthening silence—he does so slowly, like he’s not so much tired as aching and ill.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry.” His tongue seems to trip over the words. He gets to his feet cautiously and stumbles forward to the pilot’s seat, sinking into it unsteadily, fumbling with the straps. Rainbow, looking shocked, has to help him fasten the straps. Cas shrinks from her touch as she does so.

“Damn my eyes,” Jody breaths in an undertone that only Dean can hear. “Is he a secret ambergloss addict? Cas? I just can’t believe it.”

“That’s right.” Dean throws himself head first at this fiction like it’s a safety line. The only one in sight in a void of empty space. Even if Dean was inclined to prove Cas’ guilt, he knows that hanging proof on ‘the Angel’ who’d once saved Master Smith from death, whose name is evidently still a minor legend among those folk who run the Highroad in regions remote from the Riven, in League space and wherever else privateers of Ellen’s and Dagon’s ilk roam, would be virtually impossible, no matter how impulsively he acted. And were it proven and he was imprisoned? Dean doesn’t doubt that it’d be the work of a moment for Cas to escape whatever prison the Riven might devise for him.

“That’s right,” he echoes weakly. “It happens sometimes.” Dean falls into a seat, belting himself in automatically and lets Jody take her astonishment and her questions elsewhere.

It’s a rough ride back to the _Royal Sovereign_. Cas manages to dock them, barely, more by force of will than skill. Dean lets Jody and Rainbow leave the shuttle before he unbelts and stands. He takes one step toward the silent, slumped figure still strapped into the pilot’s seat.

“Leave me alone,” Cas says harshly.

“Did you?” Dean asks, sick to be asking. “I didn’t really believe—I didn’t want to believe—that you would _kill_ someone. Tell me the truth Cas.”

“You know the truth,” he replies in a low, bitter voice. He rests his head in the cradle of his hands, a gesture so typically human that for a moment Dean thinks it strange, in him.

“If I turn you in?”

“No.” The overhead lights flick off, leaving his head haloed by the soft glow of the lights illuminating the shuttle’s controls. His shadowy figure bent in the age-old pose of true suffering. Instinct tells Dean that it’s not feigned.

“No.” His voice is stronger on the second negative, although he doesn’t lift his head. “Even if they could prove it, which they can’t, I’ll never let anyone put me in a cell again. Never.”

Dean finds he’s squeezing the cushion on the seatback under his hand until it can’t give anymore. The fabric seems rougher than he recalls. He’d gambled and he’d gambled wrong. Certainly, Benny’s safe. But someone else paid the price for his indulgence and for Cas’… What else can he call it other than Cas’ obsession? “Void bless,” he murmurs. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Leave me alone,” Cas repeats, but this time it’s less threat and more plea.

Dean turns and leaves him. Goes to the bridge. Arranges for a message to be relayed to the Campbell House comm. Arranges for a shuttle and crew, schedules the departure. Sam, himself, Pinto to pilot, Jody and Victor for escort. Goes to his cabin and cleans up. Showers twice. Cleans his clothes again. On his return from the washing cubicle, he finds Baby floating just above the bed he usually shares with Cas. She merely blinks lights at Dean, strangely enough she doesn’t sing.

“Oh, yes,” he says. “You ought to come with us as well. But re-key the lock before we go. Manual. To admit only you and me.” He stops, then adds, “And Sam.”

Her affirmative is subtle and monochromatic. After a moment, she starts to sing:

_”When your day is long_  
_And the night_  
_The night is yours alone_  
_When you're sure you've had enough_  
_Of this life_  
_Well hang on_  
_Don't let yourself go_  
_'Cause everybody cries_  
_And everybody hurts_  
_sometimes”_

He knows that he’ll have to go eventually, but he waits passively, expecting that sooner or later Sam will come and prod him into action. For once, he can’t find the drive within himself. It’s never occurred to him before now that he is truly out of his depth. Not with Cas perhaps, but with Angel, and he’s locked in an impossible situation.

His thoughts wind pointlessly around in this manner until the door chimes an ‘entrance’ request. He accepts it automatically and is surprised to see Paisley.

“Min Smith.” Paisley examines him thoughtfully, astute in the way only a child grown to adolescence on harsh streets can be. “You be heart tired, min. I reckoned I ought to tell you that min Seraphim be right sore ill. It were only ’cause I and Pinto helped him that he even got to ya Medical.” She pauses and waits for Dean’s reaction.

He sighs and stands up. “Is Pinto ready to leave?”

Paisley says nothing for a moment, frowning and then shrugs. “Sure, min Smith.” She turns and leaves the cabin.

Dean follows her, Baby coasting along behind in his wake. Someone’s refueled and cleaned the shuttle. Dean boards in silence, sits without speaking as the others come on board. Once they detach from the _Royal Sovereign_ he sleeps, waking only as the tearing winds of Kansas shake the shuttle as Pinto brings them in for landing on the Lawrence Port strip.

He’s forgotten what it’s like and when he steps outside, he realizes he had never truly appreciated it.

Kansas has a terrible beauty. The wind rages and tears at his clothing, almost knocking him over until he remembers to balance for it. One of the ways Master Smith taught them stance was to send him and Sam outside into the worst gales until they could stay upright and relaxed against them. They stand now, side by side as always, taking in the wild beauty. Riots of color fill the air, shading up and down the spectrum in a wild kaleidoscope, a pattern as busy as the tattoos of the Ridanis.

Jody and Victor come out after them, struggling. Both lose their footing more than once, although only Victor actually falls to his knees, knocked sideways by a furious gust of wind.

Jody tugs at her breathing plug and pulls on Sam’s arm. “Isn’t there an inside?” she shouts.

Pinto’s parked the shuttle on the far edge of Lawrence Port’s berthing field and now Dean stands staring at the sheer cliffs that shelter the port, at the glittering whir of the wind generators, powering the town and at the faint, far flash of beacons marking the wilderness of Kansas’ turbulent surface where safety can be found.

“Look,” Dean breathes, unaware of the growing apprehension of their two companions. “Look!”

Sam freezes, slightly crouched for wind balance and staring at an apparition scudding down the near cliff face, thrown in scattering sheets in front of the wind. “I’ve never seen one so close to a built-up area before.”

Dean grabs Jody’s arm and points. “See. There. It’s blowing this way.”

“What—that—it looks like white filaments woven together?” asks Jody.

“It’s a ghost.” Dean gazes, mesmerized, as the white being drifts closer and closer yet. “There’s an old legend that the souls of people lost in storm become absorbed by them.”

Sam gasps as a sudden sharp gust brings the ghost past them. Jody and Victor both take quick steps back.

A thin, sticky filament brushes across the back of Dean’s hand, like a gesture, or a fleeting wisp of affection and then the wind grabs it and it streams upward, pulled into the maelstrom of clouds above.

“Dad,” Dean whispers.

“Curse the Seven Hells.” Jody stares up at the turbulence above. “What’d you say?”

Dean shrugs. “Nothing. I just thought of our Dad. I don’t know why. He died when I was four—” He stops. “Let’s go. Where’s Baby?”

On the ramp, behind them all, Baby’s still valiantly trying to adjust her stabilizers to compensate for the force of the gale. Dean waits for her, waving Sam to take the others ahead.

The Harbormaster’s office is expecting them, but have cautiously not sent an escort. Sam and Dean don’t know the young woman at the desk and they don’t ask after Benny’s father. After registering and paying the berth tax, one quick call ascertains the Sar has already sent an ore train in on the tunnel to pick them up and transport them to Campbell House.

“We seem to be coming home in rather better style than we left,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Sam.

As with all ore trains, the passenger compartment is cramped and crude. They sit out the rough, noisy ride from Lawrence Port to Campbell House without more comment than the occasional question from Victor concerning House protocol and Baby’s low singing of ‘ _Go Your Own Way_ ’, which is mostly drowned out by the rattle and hum of the train.

At last they slow and bump to a halt in the loading zone of Campbell House. Dean eases open the compartment door and finds himself face to face with his mother. She waits alone on the broad platform. His first and most damning impression is that she looks older. Old, worn and yet, when she sees him, takes in his actual physical presence, she lights up from within.

“Dean.” Her voice has the same neutral cast he remembers, but her hand, lined and veined with age, trembles slightly as she reaches out to greet him. “I was sure you must be dead. I’m—” She hesitates, whether out of deference for his reserve or simply out of emotion. “I’m very happy to know you are not.”

“I’m sorry, for the way we left.” He reaches out and takes her hand, feeling like he’s meeting a stranger in a familiar guise. Her skin is cool and damp, but her clasp on Dean’s hand is firm. “I didn’t think—” Suddenly he chuckles and, like it releases something in her, she lets go of his hand and ventures her characteristic, calm smile, indicative not so much of humor as of approval.

“No, Dean,” she agrees. “But then, you rarely did.” She looks past him and calls out, “Sam.” He moves forward and wraps Mary in a warm hug. Dean can see that she’s caught sight of their companions and he quickly introduces Jody and Victor.

The Saress, not much to his surprise, recognizes Victor’s House affiliation and greets him rather more warmly than she does Jody. But his real surprise comes when Baby emerges from the compartment.

“Why I remember that piece of—equipment!” she starts. “Not even Moishe could get it to work.” She turns a suspicious eye on her oldest son. “Perhaps we all did underestimate you, Dean,” she finishes, with a comprehensive glance at his composure and uniform. Then, reading his discomfort, she turns to Victor and discusses mining and ore with him as they walk the half kilometer to Campbell House itself.

Various representatives from Kansas’ different Houses have already arrived, but the Saress takes them to a small suite allowing them clean up before she leads them to the formal dining hall. This isn’t the room in which the Campbell House clan have their family meals. Dean’s rarely seen this hall, never being of sufficient age or importance to merit inclusion in any formal functions.

Even now, Sam is being relegated to the family dining chamber, not deemed old enough to join them. The brothers share pained expressions but Sam leaves, neither of them willing to make a scene.

The Sar greets Dean, Victor and Jody formally as they come into the hall. Holding Dean’s hand a moment too long, looking at him with that stiff disapproval that’s the expression Dean best remembers of him, he says in a low voice, “You’re looking well, Dean. I see that your stubborn wildness has found a suitable channel at last.”

Dean’s too astonished to do more than reply, “You’re looking well yourself, Grandfather.”

It’s true enough. The intervening time has left no apparent mark on the Sar. He wears the same tightly coiled attitude that he always has, like armor.

At his mother’s urging, Dean presses on to meet the other guests. Wealthy men and women, elected counselors and university instructors, other House functionaries. He’s grateful when they sit down to dinner and he can escape from conversations that have no meaning to the safety of eating.

In such company, Jody remains quiet. When the talk turns to Jehane and the rebellion, Dean finds himself at a loss to convince these passive observers in the kind of reasoned, uncontroversial dinner talk that’s their social forte. To their immense relief, Victor’s years in Henriksen House before he’d joined Jehane, have accustomed him to such niceties and evasions. He quickly becomes the spokesman while Dean, sitting next to the Sar, can relax and watch him field questions and gently rebuke the prejudiced and ignorant.

“He’s a good man, this Victor,” says his grandfather softly under the cover of the conversation. “I know of Henriksen House. Mostly asteroid mining, of course, but still a large and well-run operation out in the Wellington belt. Any kind of alliance, or a bond, with that House would certainly be valuable to us.”

It takes Dean a minute to catch his insinuation. His first reaction is horror. “That’s out of the question,” he starts hotly, thinking of Castiel and then diverts his agitation into a quick change of subject. “During times like these, I mean. But I’d never heard of Henriksen House until I met Victor.” Once voiced, the thought makes him regard the Sar with sudden and keen interest. “You must collect a great deal of information on the mining and House operations across the Riven.”

“To be successful, one must stay informed.” Samuel returns Dean’s regard evenly, giving no clue as to what he thinks of Dean’s brief and impassioned outburst on the subject of bond alliances. “Yes, it’s true that I collect a lot of information. Though you’ve never shown any interest in such things before, Dean.”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He’s thinking of Baby, whom he’d left back in the suite, idle but for whatever activities such a robot might choose on her own initiative. Already he’s planning how to get that information out of Campbell House’s computer net and into Baby, to transport back on the _Royal Sovereign_ to Jehane’s people. Perhaps Jehane already has access to such files, but whatever twists put on the collation by the Sar’s active and penetrating mind might reveal some valuable grain of a detail otherwise lost. Dean smiles, taking in his grandfather’s bemused expression. “No, I hadn’t shown much interest before, had I?”

“Is this the influence of Jehane that I see?”

“No.” He feels the old pain, muted now, true, but still hard beneath the surface. “Perhaps a little, but it’s mostly Master Smith’s influence. He’s dead,” he adds quickly, wanting to forestall further questions.

“I’m sorry,” he answers gravely. “Then he was indeed in danger that day.”

“Yes. But it was Central that killed him.” Dean ponders the bitterness of his voice for a few moments in silence, while farther down the table Victor keeps the guests busy with his passionate, but not unreasonable, defense of Jehane.

“Some months after you left, the Lafittes were arrested—all but the father—by the government on charges of harboring seditious material and tampering with port logs, trade regulations and tax collection. I could discover that they’d been sent to Hexham, but nothing more.”

“I know. Old Grand-mere Lafitte died there. Elizabeth, the daughter, was killed in a raid. Benny’s with me now. His mother, not surprisingly, is on Jehane’s staff on his flagship.”

“Everyone’s suffered Dean. Your cousin Christian died the day you disappeared.”

“Christian?” The name catches in Dean’s throat. He’d half dreaded, half looked forward to seeing his arrogant cousin.

“He blamed himself for your impetuous departure. He followed the two of you, much against my wishes, in another surface truck. He wasn’t as lucky as you.”

Dean doesn’t reply, staring at his plate for a long while as, half-heard, Victor discusses the meaning of Jehane’s name and assures the guests that Jehane’s not a Ridani, in disguise or otherwise, nor yet a fool who doesn’t understand the problems inherent in dealing with the Ridani population sprawled across every grimy corner and rundown corridor of Riven space.

A long ripple of repercussions spread out from his impulsive choice to follow Master Smith and yet he is himself just one link in a larger chain that leads back across unimaginable distances to a hazy beginning in a war fought through regions of space that his people, the citizens of the Riven, have long since been exiled from and are ignorant of. Yet the _Royal Sovereign_ herself might hold some key that can unlock the route that could lead them across the uncharted and confusing wastes that stranded such a population here in the first place.

“Do you think Jehane will win?” asks the Sar, breaking into his musing.

Dean sees that this, of all questions, is the one that truly concerns Samuel, planning for the future of his House. However much he might care for Dean—and Dean understands now that he did—his overriding goal is one of preservation, to which all other affections must come second.

“I think it likely,” Dean says carefully, “given he is what he is. If Central rallies enough to break him, still I think he’ll have come so close to succeeding that things will change in any case. One way or the other.”

Samuel nods. Already Dean can see the way Samuels’s attention retreats from him that he’s lost his grandfather to the calculations necessary to keep Campbell House protected from the upcoming storm.

Dinner adjourns soon after. Dean excuses himself from the more casual after-dinner salon, where surprisingly Jody finds herself more comfortable than Victor, having experienced at close hand the informal formalities of senatorial society on Arcadia.

A few words to Baby in the silence of the suite and she’s busy with the House computer, digging up facts. Dean retraces his steps of that day two years since to the old warehouse, where he finds Sam waiting for him.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d missed you or not,” Sam says from the alcove where the safety gear is stored.

Dean shrugs and explains what he’s got Baby doing. They quickly go through the procedures of breathing plugs, hard hats, the codes for the doors that surprisingly still work. The cold stillness of the lock that gives suddenly onto the rough wilderness of Kansas.

Dean sees the same exhilaration he feels mirrored in Sam’s face. They battle the winds as they make their way across the familiar route to the Academy. Old habits come back to them. Listening for the snap of rock, the heightened wail of a changing gust of wind, the sudden shift of color in the roiling clouds that might herald new turbulence. They nudge each other back and forth simply enjoying being together, away from everyone and everything.

Coming over the rise to the narrow, sunken plateau that housed Master Smith’s Academy, they see that it’s changed utterly. It’s nothing but bones now. A few wind generators still clack repetitiously, but most have long since shattered, or else flap aimlessly in the wind. They go as far as the elevator shaft that leads down.

Sand silts the door, half-concealing it. After extensive digging they get enough purchase on the door to shove it open. Sand pours down into darkness.

Cool, stale air wafts up from the deep shaft to mingle with the violent whip of wind around them. No command, no combination of keys, lifts the grounded elevator from its grave. Empty and abandoned, the Academy lays in ruins under the harsh landscape of Kansas.

Thoughtful, but not despondent, Dean decides to return to Campbell House rather than climb down into darkness. The trip back is less playful than the one they’d taken over, but the brothers still stay close. Sam shares the family gossip he’s learned at the family dinner. New bonds, new babies, deaths. Soon after they get back, Dean gathers their companions and they leave.

  


.oOo.

  


“So,” Jody speaks when they’re back on the shuttle and lifting for the clear veil of space beyond Kansas’ storms, “we’ve accomplished our revenge and succumbed to our nobler impulses of familial solidarity. Now what?”

“What do you think?” Dean asks absently. He’s plugged his screen into Baby and is paging through the wealth of information stolen from Campbell House’s computer net. “We track down Jehane.”

“Oh, Jehane,” Jody sounds a little disappointed. “I thought, with that boat falling so providently into our hands, that we might set up as a bootlegger. I think we could be pretty successful.”

Dean looks up from his screen. “I don’t think the next couple of years are going to be very fruitful for bootleggers. If—when—Jehane succeeds, he knows too well how useful they can be in clandestine operations against the government and if Central wins,” he hesitates, casting a glance at Victor, “they’ll want their own revenge against the people who aided and abetted the rebellion.”

“In any case,” Victor adds easily, but with a surprising touch of sarcasm, “we’re all Jehanists, aren’t we?”

“‘Jehane will come,’” Dean says. “‘He’ll bring justice. But, Comrades, it’s up to us to prepare the ground on which he will stand.’”

Sam catches his eye and Dean can tell, like himself, Sam was thinking of Dorothy Baum as he said it, not of Jehane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Everybody Hurts** by _R.E.M._  
>  **Go Your Own Way** by _Fleetwood Mac._


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family don't end with blood.
> 
> * * *

Chapter 19

The _Royal Sovereign_ slinks along the littlest used interstices of the Riven’s vector net for two months before a chance encounter with a terrified merchantman gives them the _Endeavour’s_ last known location. They’ve taken out two military cutters with their guns and have scared off any number of less aggressive vessels with the faded, looping distress beacon that’s the last vestige of the _Royal Sovereign’s_ previous crew.

A long two months, but fruitful for Pinto and the Mule, Benny, Mick and Brian, and even Paisley when Brian cooperates with her. They start to grow comfortable with the ship’s systems and their lack of qualified people on many of the posts is a problem they learn to work around, even as their ability to respond to the ship become more complex.

On returning from Kansas, Dean told Cas he was no longer welcome in Dean’s cabin and he’d prefer him to stay confined to Medical. Cas doesn’t press him for an explanation, just disappears into Medical’s lab. Only Rainbow sees him with any frequency, which suits the rest of the crew, although Dean suspects both Paisley and Owen spend time in the lab with him. Now and then Cas requests through formal channels the assistance of Baby. Dean always agrees, although he doesn’t inquire into Cas’ doings. Alex brings him meals from the kitchen and Sam and Jody, mercifully, ask no questions.

Rumors lead them past Wellington by circuitous routes to Dartmoor. Good hard facts direct them back toward the sector of space Jehane had come out of in the first place.

They find the _Endeavour_ at Tottenham. After a tense hour during which Dean finally manages to convince a massed fleet of twenty ships he’s with them, not against them, when he receives a sudden order to report on board the _Endeavour_ in person in two hours. He sends Pinto, Jody and Benny to prepare the shuttle, leaves Baby in his cabin with the usual instructions to be cautious and Sam on the bridge in charge until he returns. When Dean reaches docking it’s to discover Cas’ already strapped into one of the last row of seats.

“What are you doing here?” he demands, annoyed to find his hands reach and his breathing quickens at the sight of Cas.

He smiles, mocking. “It occurs to me,” he replies softly, “it’s time I met Alexander Jehane. I’m curious to see what kind of man he is.”

“I’d have thought you’d have plenty of opportunity to do that by watching the vids of his speeches.”

He’s cut his hair shorter. It gives him an almost normal look, like he’s any other person, except his hair is now entirely blue. All the near-black ends have gone. His expression is still mocking and he glances briefly toward Jody in the front. “Ah, but it’s the one point on which Comrade Mills and I agree. Being both uninterested in messiahs, neither of us’ve bothered to follow the exploits of our glorious leader except through what we hear from others, or inadvertently over the comm.”

“Then what’s your interest now?” Dean finds himself getting more annoyed because Cas seems so distant from him. Has he no reaction at all? No explanations or even a plea for forgiveness? He’s never even sought Dean out in the past two months—

The mocking look on his face changes, like he can read Dean’s thoughts, to one of amused complicity. Dean blushes. There have been dreams and stranger, more erotic ones still when he’s slept through windows until at last, this past week, Dean scheduled his sleep to periods when they are not traversing the Highroad.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he hisses in an undertone. “Not during a window—” He stops, infuriated by the look on Cas’ face. Dean can’t tell if Cas is laughing at him for revealing his fantasies, or if he’s pleased with himself for finding so underhanded a way to circumvent Dean’s decision to reject him.

Abruptly Cas frowns and turns his face away from Dean. “I will thank you,” he says in a low voice, “not to insult me by believing I would touch you without your consent.”

Instead of replying, Dean walks forward to strap in beside Jody, just behind pilot and comm.

“Let’s go,” he grunts.

  


.oOo.

  


Much to Dean’s surprise, he finds Kuan-yin waiting with ten white-clad soldiers to escort them from the _Endeavour’s_ docking bay. Dean intended to have Jody accompany him, but seeing the hard face of Kuan-yin, he feels it might be wise to leave Jody with the shuttle and go alone with Cas, whom Dean doubts he can persuade to stay.

“Comrade Jehane wishes to see you alone,” Kuan-yin says harshly, seeing Castiel emerge from the shuttle behind Dean.

Before Dean can reply, Cas steps forward. “Don’t you remember me?” he drawls.

She glares at him, but without a word turns and motions them forward. As they file along the white corridors of the _Endeavour_ , Dean wonders if Comrade Kuan-yin has changed at all in the intervening time and if she’s forgiven Dean for the injury he dealt Jehane. The belligerent set of Kuan-yin’s shoulders seems to indicate she has not.

She leaves them in the same office Dean met Jehane in some nine months ago. Dean sits down in what might well be the same plush chair, but Cas prowls, touching each surface, each texture in the room, including Jehane’s desk and chair. Dean watches him move, the familiar posture, the smooth grace with which he completes his exploratory circuit of the room. He returns to stand just behind and to one side of Dean’s chair.

The door opens and Jehane enters.

He pauses as the door shuts behind him and simply gazes at them. His brilliance has neither dimmed nor, Dean thinks, changed in its essence and yet Dean feels Jehane’s measuring him in a new way. He stands up.

Like his movement is a cue, Cas stirs beside him and speaks.

“‘And it is in glorious Light that he firmly perseveres. And he stood in his own Light that surrounds him, that is, the Eye of the Light that gloriously shines on me.’” Cas’ voice is so neutral Dean can’t tell whether he’s being sarcastic or sincere.

Jehane cocks his head to one side, a curiously mortal gesture. “Have we met before?” he asks.

“Not personally, I think,” replies Cas.

As much as Dean wants to turn his head to see Cas’ expression, he doesn’t think it prudent.

“Ah,” Jehane says, the exclamation encompassing an entire universe of understanding. “Yes. I remember you.” He walks with deliberate steps to his desk and stands behind it, fingertips resting lightly on the plastic grain of its surface as he examines Castiel. Dean can’t decide whether Jehane approves of what he sees or not.

“Shall I wait outside?” Castiel asks in a tone Dean can’t decipher.

Jehane doesn’t reply immediately. He sits down instead and taps the keypad of his desk until a shifting of the light radiating up toward his face from the screen imbedded in the desk reveals he’s called up some information. His gaze flicks over it, but whatever it says either doesn’t surprise him or is entirely unrelated to his scrutiny of Castiel, because his expression doesn’t alter in the slightest.

“Yes,” he says softly, at last. “I think you might.”

Castiel offers him a negligent bow and leaves by the other door.

Dean remains standing.

“I sense,” Jehane says, “you have a lot to report to me, Comrade Smith. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable seated.”

“Thank you, Comrade.” Dean sits down.

Jehane acknowledges his thanks with a patrician nod and simply waits for Dean to begin.

He starts with Abner’s final instructions, the death of the _Lady Penrhyn_ and their time on Epping, then moves to the discovery of the _Royal Sovereign_. As Dean speaks, Jehane’s fingers move lightly over the keypad, making Dean wonder what notes he’s taking. His eyes remain on Dean, as narrow and tight a channel as that between two ships in a crowded port who wish their conversation to go unheard by any other comm. The effect is so disconcerting, Dean falters once or twice, but always he finds his balance again and goes on with his story. When he finishes, Jehane’s fingers continue tapping for a time and eventually cease.

Jehane considers him in silence. Dean feels uncomfortably like a transparent slate, all motives and desires clear to the eye, under his scrutiny. But he holds still in his chair and returns Jehane’s look.

Finally he touches a panel on his desk. The wall screen behind him comes to life. The slow circle of systems and star fields that mark out Riven space.

“You’ve learned,” he says slowly, “a few methods besides brute force. You have information for me from Kansas.”

“I’ll transmit it to you as soon as I return to the _Royal Sovereign_.”

On the wall screen, Dean sees the shifting of stars trace his journey from Epping to Tottenham.

“How long have you been with this man, Castiel?” Jehane asks.

This diverts his interest from the map behind Jehane. “Since… On and off since Nevermore. You saw him there.”

“Yes, I did,” Jehane replies, like the answer ought to remind Dean of some significant detail he has obviously forgotten. Jehane glances at his wrist-comm and flicks off the wall screen, pulling out from the desk a slim screen he hands across to Dean. He has to stand and come forward to get it. “I’d like you to confirm this is the current crew manifest for the _Royal Sovereign_.”

Dean scrolls through the file, names with faces: Castiel Seraphim; Victor Henriksen; Benny Lafitte; Bela Talbot; Mick Davies; Brian Wilcox; Sam Wesson; Jody Mills; Owen Mills; Alex Mills; Ridanis known as Rainbow, Cursive, Diamond, Pinto, Paisley; one alleged Sta called ‘the Mule.’

“Yes.” Dean lays the screen on the desk in front of him. “It’s complete except for me and my ‘bot.”

Jehane stands. At the same time the door opens and the white-clad figure of Kuan-yin appears in the doorway, her basilisk eyes fixing on Dean. Behind her stand her usual escort of ten soldiers. But behind them Dean can’t see any trace of blue hair, indicating Cas has been allowed to wait nearby.

“No,” Jehane agrees gently, conveying by his expression and tone, his mistake is merely the prelude to a greater honor. “The acquisition of the _Royal Sovereign_ to our fleet is of incalculable benefit to our cause Comrade, as you know. Experienced crew will be added to those already familiar with the vessel, to bring it up to its full complement. But you’ll be of more value to our work elsewhere. That’s why I’m reassigning you to my personal staff.”

He smiles magnificently and comes around the desk to Dean, extending his hand in a gesture so common, he makes it congratulatory. “Welcome to the _Endeavour_ , Comrade Officer Smith.”

Dean shakes his hand because it’d be idiotic not to. Kuan-yin’s obvious and hostile presence makes it impossible for him to protest and, as an officer in Jehane’s army, he’s subject to Jehane’s orders in any case. That’s the choice he’d made when he joined Jehane’s revolution.

“Now,” Jehane turns, “I’m to address a large assembly, to be broadcast across the fleet. It’s time for the final offensive to begin.” He offers Dean a brief, apologetic smile. “I hope you’ll wait for the specifics of your assignment until I’m finished.”

“Of course,” Dean replies, not knowing what else to say.

Kuan-yin, waiting for just such a cue, sweeps Jehane out of the room. In the eddy left by their exit, Dean discovers a single white-clad man waiting by the opposite door.

“I’m Comrade Trenton,” he introduces himself. Dean dislikes him immediately. He reminds Dean of a compact and cruder version of Kuan-yin. Trenton grins at him, recognizing his dislike. “I know you’ll be anxious to hear Comrade Jehane,” he continues, like he’s doing Dean a great favor. “There are several rooms above the docking bay in which his personal staff can listen in some privacy—”

“Excuse me,” Dean interrupts. “But I came here with some people—”

Trenton smiles again. He has particularly small eyes, which lend his face a sly, mean look. “I suppose I could arrange for them to meet you there,” he concedes reluctantly. He waits like he’s expecting Dean to offer him something in exchange.

“I’d appreciate it,” he replies.

“Remember one thing, Smith,” he goes on, putting a little threat into his voice now, enjoying it. “Comrade Kuan-yin has asked me to keep an eye on you, for her. I’ll be doing just that.”

“Does Comrade Jehane know about this arrangement?” Dean asks, unable to picture Jehane confiding in this man.

Immediately Trenton looks annoyed. He walks to the door. “Come on,” he snaps. Dean follows him without a word to a plastic-sheathed bubble of a room overlooking a huge docking bay that’s been pumped full of air and populated by cameras and a huge contingent of Jehanist troops, all shifting and seething in anticipation of the speech of their leader. Other rooms and bubbles overlook the bay.

Comrade Trenton leaves him there alone, but soon the door opens again and, much to his surprise, Jody and Cas come in.

“Where is—?” Dean starts, casting a quick, almost accusatory glance at Cas.

Jody shrugs. “I thought it best to leave them on the shuttle. They didn’t mind. But Hell on Newgate, Dean, is it true Jehane’s transferred you?”

Dean sets his elbows on the sloping wall of plastic and stares morosely out at the mass of humanity below. “Yes. I don’t see that there’s anything I can do about it.”

Cas chuckles. He doesn’t seem at all distressed that they’re about to be parted. “Our Severus knows which fires to keep close by him, to stoke his own flame.”

“Our _what_?” Jody asks.

Dean turns back to look at Cas. “Why _did_ you want to see him? ‘See what kind of man he is.’ What does _that_ mean?”

“Look,” Cas speaks. “Here he comes. They must be preparing this broadcast to go, illicit and otherwise, across half the Riven.”

A file of men and women, clearly notables or officers of one kind or another, march out and line up on the platform. A pause and then the unmistakable figure of Kuan-yin emerges. She stops behind the podium.

From the bubble, they have an excellent vantage point. Some trick of the comm-system mutes the noise of the assembled troops.

“There,” Cas says and he laughs under his breath. “Oh, marvelous. What an entrance.”

Somehow the sudden appearance of Alexander Jehane, golden hair gleaming in the harsh lights of the bay, the commonplace lines of his brown jacket and trousers marking him both as humble and yet, in the sea of white, as rich in color, brings silence rather than an uproar from the waiting crowd. They still, like each was touched by Jehane’s hand in passing, and stand in a hush so deep as to be almost eerie.

Jehane walks slowly to the podium, his deliberation seeming somehow necessary so that he might have time to mark and approve each individual in the vast bay.

As he stops at the podium, pauses to sweep his gaze once more round the assembled thousands and not perhaps coincidentally to allow the assembled cameras an opportunity for a few more precious seconds on the careful beauty of his face. Jody leans forward and splays one hand on the plastic, staring.

“Well damn my eyes,” she breathes, “if that isn’t Mendi Mun.”

Jumbled together with his amazement that Alexander Jehane is the same man who abandoned Jody and Alex on Arcadia, only one clear impression of Jehane’s speech remains with Dean afterward. He recognizes immediately the bold and stirring phrases Alexander speaks are not _his_ words, but Athena’s. Some of them Dean actually heard Dorothy compose, speaking in her sonorous and deeply sincere voice as Baby recorded and then spooled copies through the printer so Dorothy could both listen to and read the speeches again, making what changes she thought best.

But Dorothy’d always possessed the gift of brilliant improvisation and rarely needed to change much. Her belief in the plight of the people fueled her words and they flowed from her as smoothly as lava, red and hot, from a split seam in the earth.

Athena’s words. They bring the image of Dorothy back to Dean so vividly it’s some time before he realizes Jody’s still standing next to him, staring down at Jehane with an expression blending anger and amused resignation.

“Come on,” Dean says, pulling Jody back from the plastic. “By the time he finishes, we’ll be back on the shuttle and halfway to the _Royal Sovereign_.”

Jody tugs Dean to a stop, blinking confused. “What do you mean? You’ve been reassigned.”

“Yes and I need to grab my shit, right? We’ll pick up Owen as well, _then_ we’ll see what Jehane has to say.”

“Now wait.” Jody’s lips curl down. For an instant she looks as stubborn as Paisley. “Whatever fantasies I might’ve had about confronting Mendi with his—” she hesitates.

“Betrayal?” Dean suggests.

“I don’t think under the circumstances, it’d be a good idea. It’s been almost eight years. Why bother now?”

“How am I supposed to trust someone who’d do that?”

Jody glances back at Jehane speaking. Passionately, forcefully, the entire crowd, indeed the entire audience made up of uncounted millions watching him in this system and in systems to come when the recording is sent out on every ship leaving Tottenham, rapt in his spell.

“Maybe he’s changed,” Jody says, meaning it. “Void knows we saw enough corruption on Central to be changed by it. Cas,” she extends a hand in a pleading gesture, “you agree with me?”

“Not at all.” He looks amused. “I wouldn’t dream of missing this reunion for the world.”

Jody grins suddenly “Well, I must say I’ve always wondered what excuse that squirrelly bastard would come up with. But, Jehane…” She shakes her head as she follows Dean out.

Dean easily bullies his way through the ship to the shuttle. By the time they reach the _Royal Sovereign_ an urgent call has arrived from the _Endeavour_ asking (not quite demanding) Dean report immediately for duty on the flagship.

He does, but with three companions and one ’bot in tow. In some confusion, a staff officer shows them into the empty office and leaves.

A moment later Kuan-yin appears, Trenton at her back. Her diamond-hard glare sweeps over the group and comes to rest on Dean.

“You were to report for duty, Comrade,” she snaps. “What does this mean?” Her gesture, encompassing Cas, Jody, and a wide-eyed Owen who has a strong hold on his mother’s hand, is just short of being insulting.

“I have a last piece of business to finish with Comrade Jehane,” Dean tells her without raising his voice. He’s beginning to realize if he remains calm, Kuan-yin’s belligerence will have nothing to act on. “You must understand I still have some responsibilities to the people who are remaining on the _Royal Sovereign_.”

“I understand you’re disobeying orders, Comrade,” Kuan-yin barks, “and I have the authority to—”

“Joan.” The softness of his voice permeates the room as easily as the coarse energy of Kuan-yin’s anger. He steps into the office alone and she retreats with abrupt meekness to leave Jehane in solitary splendor, still in his plain brown clothing, facing Dean and the others.

He acknowledges Dean with a nod of his head. Baby and Cas he merely glances at. His gaze rests longer on Jody.

“Eugenie,” he says and though it’s not a name Dean recognizes, he knows immediately it must be Jody’s real name. Alexander says it a little sadly, as though its memory fills him with regret.

Lastly, he looks at the boy.

In such close quarters, the golden hair clearly links them. Dean’s never seen hair with such a metallic sheen in any other human. Beyond that link, Owen’s more his mother’s child, or at least the intervening years have made him so. Pale skin, with a square jaw and round face, he has none of Alexander’s charisma. So solemn, solitary and quiet a child has little scope in which such a trait might blossom, even if it had been encouraged under the hard circumstances of his day-to-day life.

Owen stares with somber curiosity at his father, but doesn’t venture to speak. He keeps a tight grip on Jody’s hand. He, too, says nothing.

“I wish,” Alexander starts and stops. He looks at Jody, directly. Sad, but unashamed. “I’m sorry I abandoned you and Annie in such straits. Her child?”

“She miscarried,” Jody states bluntly. “Too many windows, too fast, getting away from Arcadia.”

His expression is impossible to read. “I had to make the choice between you and the revolution, which I’d only then realized I was called to lead. Sometimes duty exacts a harsh price.”

“Yeah,” Jody says, looking uncomfortable. “Well, we managed.” She looks over at Dean. “We’d better go now.”

“Please.” Jehane crouches, putting himself more on a level with Owen and extends one hand. “If I may?”

Slowly, Owen detaches his fingers, twined in amongst his mother’s and takes first one, then two, then three steps toward his father, so he stands in the gap between the two, looking small and hesitant. He glances over his shoulder at Jody, seeking permission.

“Perhaps we might have a few moments alone,” Jehane asks in a gentle voice, but it’s clearly an order, not a request.

Jody nods once and turns quickly to leave the room. Dean and Cas follow her.

Outside, Jody stops and sets one hand, palm resting on the wall, to hold herself up. “Damn him,” she mutters. There are tears in her eyes. Dean puts an arm around her. Cas, mercifully, keeps his thoughts to himself.

The interview lasts about ten minutes. Jody doesn’t speak the entire time, not even when the door opens and Alexander personally shows Owen out and then disappears back inside.

Owen regards his mother with a child’s solemnity. “Is he really my father?”

She nods, still not trusting her voice.

“He’s nice. He invited me to visit him once the war’s over.”

“Do you want to go?” Her voice is choked.

He shrugs, conveying his indifference with the gesture, but his eyes remain fixed on his mother, gauging her reaction. Her relief is obvious. He smiles and takes her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Severus** : In this case Cas is talking about _Marcus Aurelius Severus Alexander Augustus_ , known as Severus Alexander. Roman Emperor from 222 to 235


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finds himself alone.
> 
> * * *

Dean says good bye quickly to Jody, Owen and Cas when they leave for the _Royal Sovereign_ , because to linger over farewells would be too painful. Almost as painful as leaving Sam on the _Royal Sovereign_ had been. In the three days before the fleet breaks up to begin Jehane’s new offensive, Dean dreams of Cas often.

Worst, when they do at last cast off from Tottenham system in their designated groups, the _Royal Sovereign_ receives her assignment far from the _Endeavour’s_ projected field of action. The first window they depart through brings Dean such a vivid, disquieting image of Cas that he almost believes Cas had actually been with him.

And within the hour, he’s ill. Quite ill. So bad they admit him to Medical and even let Baby stay with him, day and night.

He lapses into delirium, unable to gauge time. Forgets the name of the _Endeavour’s_ physician and the others who attend him sporadically. Now and then surfacing enough to hear the physician telling a presence he thinks must be Jehane, because his being there brings Dean at least partway back to consciousness, that it’s either psychological strain or else some disease he’s not seen before.

Dean’s moved to a white, enclosed space. Only Baby’s singing remains constant.

Baby’s singing, the occasional glowing memory of a visit from Jehane and the windows.

In every window Dean goes through he sees Cas. For that instant, with piercing clarity, he feels Cas’ bronzed hands and recalls the silken curling blue of his hair. Then the ship comes out of the window and for a few hours the delirium fades and he recovers enough to understand that he’s sick.

This occurs with such regularity that the physician tells Jehane, not aware that Dean’s cognizant enough to listen, that he can only speculate that some unknown property of the windows is curing Comrade Smith and that if they hadn’t been traveling so far and so fast along the Highroad, they’d have lost him.

Finally, the delirium fades and disappears all together. Dean finds himself lying on a stasis couch in a white isolation chamber in one corner of Medical. Baby floats at the foot of the couch, linked by one of her attachments to a terminal built into the wall. She seems to be doing calculations. Dean lays quietly and doesn’t bother her.

Almost immediately, the isolation unit door pops open and the physician comes in. He’s outfitted entirely in quarantine gear, but Dean can still make out deep brown eyes in a broad, dark face beneath the clear mask. He stops beside the couch and stares first at Dean and then at the readings on the couch’s monitor.

His lips pursed tight, he takes a blood sample from Dean and leaves as quickly as he has come. An assistant comes by, also outfitted in quarantine gear and gives Dean a clear liquid to drink, seemingly pleased by Dean’s hunger. By this time, Baby has detached herself from the terminal and drifts up to blink lights happily about an arm’s length from Dean’s head.

_Baby_ Dean whistles as soon as the assistant leaves. _How long have I been sick?_

_Dean, you have been ill indeed. Even I have despaired for your recovery. A full eighteen days, in the day periods designated by this fleet’s systems, have passed since you fell ill._

He lifts a hand. It looks no different. Swinging his legs over the side of the couch, he sits up carefully. His head seems light, but sound. He stands up. Reels and grabs at the couch until he can balance himself. Then he waits a few moments.

“Eighteen days,” he mutters. “No wonder I feel weak.”

The door pops open behind him. He feels it prudent not to attempt to turn, yet.

“Comrade Smith.” The physician’s voice has that vigorous cheeriness that’s so often annoying to convalescent patients. “You ought to be lying down.”

Dean starts to reply, but feels a hand on his arm before he can speak. It exerts the slightest pressure, to ease him to sit and he starts to resist as he glances to that side.

And sits.

Jehane smiles and releases his arm. His hand, all of him, is encased in the thin sheath of quarantine gear, like the doctor. “Thank you, Comrade. We’ve been concerned about you.”

The very intensity of his concern as he stands next to Dean makes him doubly dizzy. “What happened?” he asks, pulling the back of his hand across his forehead. His fingers stray in the loose ends of his hair; to his relief, he can feel that it’s clean.

Jehane turns his expectant gaze to the physician. “Comrade Doctor Jennings do you have any more clues?”

The doctor’s shrug is eloquently ambivalent. “Oh, yes,” he says tartly, “I have clues, Comrade, but they don’t lead me anywhere.” He examines the vital signs on the monitor again and shakes his head. “Have you any idea, Comrade Smith?” he asks. “Were you exposed to any disease? Some kind of poisoning?”

“Not that I know of.”

“There. I’m not sure I would even call it a disease in the medical sense, but perhaps rather a reaction. You’re in quarantine because I’ve come to the only conclusion I can. That this is some sort of mutated plague that you picked up from the abandoned ship that you commandeered. We’ve sent messages to the—” He pauses.

“The _Royal Sovereign_?” Dean asks, pathetically eager to hear news of the ship and its crew.

“Yes, the _Royal Sovereign_ , to see if any other outbreaks have occurred similar to yours. Until we get such news, I fear we’ll have to leave you in quarantine, Comrade. Your readings here,” he points to the monitor, “indicate that you’ve recovered, so I’m afraid that your convalescence may feel confined.”

Dean makes a slight shrug with his shoulders. “I don’t suppose it can be helped. Can a plague of such kind linger on a ship so long?”

“Presumably,” the doctor replies, but he’s frowning.

“I feel,” Jehane says, “that there’s something still disturbing you, Comrade. Some piece to the puzzle that doesn’t yet fit.”

For an instant, Doctor Jennings’s look at Jehane betrays the depth of feeling with which he regards him. “Of course, Comrade,” he answers, the three words conveying how strongly he believes in his powers of perception. “As a matter of course we take blood samples of any person admitted with an unidentified illness and do a detailed analysis. I won’t go into detail, but in any case we can, if necessary, break down the sample to the genetic level in some areas. In the course of your illness, Comrade Smith, according to our analysis, a very small segment of your genetic material altered.”

Baby blinks a single amber light, but otherwise remains motionless and silent. Jehane studies Dean with a look whose thoroughness, even wrapped beneath the quarantine sheath, seems capable to Dean of piercing through to that altered segment that so disturbs the doctor.

“What does that mean?” Dean asks.

The doctor’s lips purse tight again. “I don’t know. That you now harbor this plague in a form that’s impervious to vaccines? That in an unspecified number of months or years, or in your children, you will manifest a further sequence of events, or illness—one can only speculate—that comes about because of this alteration? We can’t be sure. It might be a harmless, if virulent, physical reaction. It might be more serious. I can’t give you reassurances, Comrade, because I don’t know.”

“Damn.” Dean feels very tired.

Jehane puts a hand, slick in plastic, on his shoulder. It’s a deeply comforting gesture. “Would you like me to remain with you a while, Comrade?” he asks.

Dean looks up at him. He appears utterly sincere and concerned, yet Dean’s reminded of Jody’s face, indeed her entire expression, as she waited outside Jehane’s office while he spoke with her son Owen.

“No,” Dean replies looking away. “I’ll just rest a bit now.”

He nods, removing his hand and leaves.

The doctor lingers. “I’m sorry, but I hate to lie to my patients. I wish I knew more.”

“You’ve looked after me well enough. I can see you have a problem, Doctor…” He trails off.

“Jennings. I understand you’re capable of drinking, do you want to try solid food?”

“I’m starving,” Dean replies with some force. He hoped the doctor would share his first name, but he’s apparently more formal than that. “I feel weak, but perfectly fine otherwise.”

“Yes.” Jennings sighs. “Your signs are completely normal. Your color, blood results, everything is fine. Except…”

“Except.”

Jennings waits a moment, but Dean doesn’t continue. At last he reaches out to pat Dean on the shoulder, a pale echo of Jehane’s gesture and retreats to the door. “I’ve other duties, but I’ll send one of my assistants with a meal. You might make a list of anything you want. You’ve a terminal built in, of course.”

“Thank you,” Dean says. When the door seals shut behind the doctor, he turns immediately to Baby, who still blinks amber.

_Baby?_ he whistles, interrogatively.

_Dean._ She prefaces her remarks with a little prelude, as if, like a child, she’s been asked to memorize lines to recite. _Comrade Seraphim instructed me—_

“Oh, he did, did he?” Dean mutters under his breath.

_—to engage your attention as soon as your vital signs returned to normal._

“But how could he know—” He stops abruptly. _Go on._

Baby waits a moment before she continues, like Dean’s interruption of her carefully crafted melody distresses, or insults, her. _Comrade Seraphim instructed me to let it be known to you that he has inoculated you with the Miescher Formula and that once you have recovered from the initial reaction, that there will be no recurring symptoms._

“The Miescher Formula?”

_The Miescher Formula._ Baby blinks through a sudden, brilliant pattern of lights, as if showing off. _A term I had not the fortune to be conversant with previously, so I must assume that advances in human life extensatory research have progressed since I was first commissioned._

“Fuck.” He lifts a hand again and stares at it. Fingers, skin, the same lines at his knuckles. It doesn’t look any different. “I don’t believe it.”

_Dean._ Her song is slightly dissonant now. _Surely you do not suggest that I would practice to deceive you?_

“No, Baby. Of course not.” He amends the words with a reassuring whistle. “But—” He shakes his head.

A brief chime signals the entrance of the assistant with his food.

“Are you all right?” he asks, checking the monitor as he levers out the tray for Dean to eat on.

“I’m fine. That food smells delicious. Thank you.”

The assistant smiles and leaves.

_Dean._

“Yes?” he asks between bites.

_Comrade Seraphim also instructed me to request that you do not yet reveal this information to anyone else._

“That’s all he said?”

_Affirmative._

He spears a strip of protein and considers Baby’s gleaming surface thoughtfully while he chews. “Leaving me stuck here for the present, of course,” he mutters as he hunts for the next strip. “All right. I’ll play his game a little longer.”

_Dean?_

_I mean, Baby, that I trust Comrade Seraphim has good reason to say what he did._

_Affirmative, Dean. Indeed, it is my belief that he has devised a larger plan which he would have confided to you had he not been sundered from you so abruptly._

“Let’s hope so,” Dean murmurs and gets back to his meal.

  


.oOo.

  


Over the next seven days, Jennings visits him diligently every five hours. Nothing changes, except that Dean starts to recover his strength by moving the couch to one wall and doing kata slowly to break himself in. He discovers that he’s weaker than he expected to be and is grateful that he’s allowed this respite to convalesce.

Jehane doesn’t visit again. Dean has no more dreams of Cas, or at least none inside windows.

Ship’s morning, of the eighth day, Jennings sighs and shakes his head over his screen. Dean watches him attentively.

“Under any other circumstances I’d proclaim you well and let you return to duty,” Jennings says. The plastic quarantine sheath gives a sheen to his dark skin and silver-flecked black hair. “But we’ve gotten news from the _Royal Sovereign_. I’ll let you review the records on your own, but unfortunately there’s been an outbreak of this ‘plague’ on the ship. So far it’s confined to the people who found the ship. The people you were with, but there’s no knowing how long an incubation period there might be.”

“Have they all been quarantined?”

“No. They’re understaffed as it is, you’ll see why, and in any case the rest of the crew have already been exposed. At least there’s been no fatalities. That gives me hope.” He checks his wrist-comm and tsks in dismay. “Void bless, I’ve got to go. All the reports are accessible through the medical folders program three lest eight. I’m sure you have the clearance.”

“Yes,” Dean agrees, glancing at Baby. “I’m sure I’ll have no trouble getting access to them.”

As soon as Jennings is gone, Dean plugs Baby in to the terminal and sits next to her, watching the screen. She quickly accesses the files detailing the most recently known movements of the fleet.

It takes a while, scrolling, indexing and trying to make sense of schedules and route maps, but eventually a pattern emerges. The _Royal Sovereign_ has been sent into a string of obscure systems whose allegiance is still heavily to Central and has engaged in a far higher percentage of battles and running actions than any other single ship in Jehane’s fleet. It’s lost two companion vessels and has taken, so far, eleven casualties out of a crew of forty-seven.

“Too high,” Dean says, tense as Baby finds the lists of reported dead. He lets out his held breath when he finds no familiar names amongst them.

The plague on the _Royal Sovereign_ is also recorded, as well as a complaint from Captain Framingham about the difficulties he’s experiencing integrating the old crew with the new people who’ve come on board with him. His final suggestion is to transfer, as a body, the old crew to some new assignment, or else break them up. His report doesn’t mention the ship’s doctor except in the most general terms, referring to his work in dealing with the plague and what injuries the crew has sustained during fighting.

“Let’s see the _Endeavour’s_ movements, Baby,” he says.

Jehane’s flagship, with seven escorting vessels, has swung a long arc out from Tottenham, passing Jody’s birthplace Camberwell and back in toward Euston, approaching the central region of Riven space from a different octant.

“There,” Dean points at a highlighted three-dimensional map of central Riven space. “From here we can move either on Newgate or Guildford, although I can’t imagine that Central will give up Guildford without a fight. Is there any news of Arcadia?”

He shuts his eyes, resting them, as Baby searches. The robot has transposed all of her pieces so that she can use the quiet hum of the ventilation system as a pedal tone as she sings.

“—I urge you to restraint, citizens, for the promised day will come. And come soon.”

The voice, achingly familiar, causes Dean to start up before he recalls where he is. After glancing once, a little embarrassed, toward Medical, but seeing no one is watching, he focuses on the screen.

It’s Athena.

An old tape, surely, but no less vivid for that. There are lines by her eyes that weren’t there before, but the open, intent expression that marks her so clearly is unchanged.

“Our task now must be to give Central no leverage on which to break our backs. Walk quietly under their illegal laws, their illegal curfews, their illegal restrictions. Buy only what food you must from their dispensaries, but do not give them cause to arrest you for stealing. Do not use the illegal identification clips they have forced on us by boycotting the transportation they control and the stores they police. Will this condemn us to a life of scarcity? Or hardship? Yes.” Her face shines with the glory of such a burden. “But this crisis will pass, because Jehane is coming.”

The screen flickers and fades to static as the recording ends. Dean presses his lips against his fingers and smiles, thinking of Dorothy. How wonderful that she’s not changed at all, that her beliefs and her passions, remain constant.

Abruptly he thinks of the Miescher Formula. What would Dorothy do if she knew of it? But the answer is self-evident—for Athena there can be only one action. The Formula belongs to the citizens of the Riven, all of them, impartially and all should share it, without cost, without qualification. The only question she would have would be how to get it to them all.

It takes him a moment to realize that there’s still voices coming from the speakers, although no image registers on the screen.

“—nevertheless, Comrade, despite Athena’s invigorating words, the fact remains that Arcadia continues well supplied while we are struggling to keep our fleet manned, fed and repaired. The Mun House bankroll can’t keep us solvent alone. We no longer have the leeway to conduct our campaign on the fringes and slowly cut Arcadia off.”

“Shit,” Dean whispers. “What’ve you found, Baby?”

_You said you desired news of Arcadia. After indexing the computer’s memory, I also accessed the ship’s internal comm-circuits and discovered this conversation underway in the tac room adjoining the bridge. Do you wish me to access a different channel, or return to the internal files?_

“No, no,” Dean murmurs. “Let’s listen.” He lifts a hand slightly and Baby subsides into silence. A single red light holds steady from the surface of her attached keypad.

“—and your suggestion that we bring the fleet together and risk one total assault on Arcadia is absurd. Perhaps even treasonous.” This voice Dean recognizes, the hard, brittle tones of Kuan-yin. “We’ll never get in without sustaining impossible losses.”

“How many windows open onto Arcadia?” argues the first voice, defensive now. “Sixteen? Eighteen? How can Central garrison every point of possible entry?”

“Now, now, Comrade Bell.” A third voice. “We can’t possibly send the fleet in piecemeal like that.” After a moment, to his great surprise, Dean realizes the third voice belongs to Benny’s mother.

Kuan-yin says something undecipherable, but clearly uncomplimentary.

“And yet, Comrade Kuan-yin,” continues Benny’s mother, “Comrade Bell’s concern about our fleet being overextended is, in my opinion, quite legitimate.”

There’s a pause, during which Dean imagines that Kuan-yin wants to give her opinion of Comrade Lafitte’s opinion, but is constrained by another presence.

“Then we’re caught,” even over the terminal, Jehane’s voice has a compelling magnetism, “between the necessity to strike now and the still overwhelming advantage of force possessed by Central’s military. Comrade Bell, brief me again on the situation at Guildford.”

“Why Guildford again?” asks Lafitte.

“Guildford remains, Comrade Lafitte, the single largest agricultural resource in Riven space. A jewel worth risking much for. Comrade?”

“Yes. Yes.” Comrade Bell’s light voice sounds the slightest touch nervous. “According to our most recent reports, Guildford’s still wavering. A large Centralist party still controls their legislature. There’s a small but active core of rebels loyal to us. But,” she coughs, “evidently a new ‘Independence’ movement is gaining strength. They wish to secede entirely from Central and from our revolution and declare Guildford completely independent. They’re the strongest faction right now.”

“And that, I submit,” says Jehane in a softly dangerous voice, “is the real threat to our cause. We need, we _must_ , have unity in Riven space.”

There’s a silence, made longer by the sound of people shifting uncomfortably in their chairs. Dean understands clearly for the first time why Jehane doesn’t like or approve of Castiel. Angel will always be, as Dagon had said so many months ago, a wild card.

“Guildford,” Jehane continues, “is the key. Give me Guildford and I can take Arcadia. I must consider this.” A pause. “We’ll meet here again in eight hours.”

The shuffling, movements and low chatter of people leaving scratch out over the speaker. The chime on the isolation unit door sounds and Dean quickly punches to an innocuous text of Athena’s most recently received speech as one of the assistants brings in his breakfast.

“Feeling better?” he asks reflexively.

“Yes. I expect I’ll be back on duty any time now.”

Eight and a half hours later, Dean’s startled out of his continued perusal of the movements of the fleet by the sudden appearance of Kuan-yin outside the isolation unit. The doctor’s arguing with her, but the dispute is settled in short order as Kuan-yin shoves pass Jennings and opens the isolation door. Without a suit.

The inner lock pops aside and Kuan-yin storms in, looking thunderous and on the edge of some great outburst.

“Get up, Smith,” she orders. “You and the ‘bot are coming with me.”

Dean stands up, not liking to meet someone such as Kuan-yin sitting down. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t need your insolence. Jehane’s gone. You’re going out tracking. I’ve called in every available ship. Now let’s go.”

Dean stands his ground. “What do you mean, Jehane’s gone? Just hours ago he was—”

“Don’t you think I know that?” If Kuan-yin could have sent out sparks, she would surely kindle several fires by now. “But he was pushed into a corner by those damned idiots who don’t understand him.”

“That’s why he’s gone?”

“You don’t understand him either.” Clearly to Kuan-yin’s mind, this is an insult. “He’ll have gone straight to the heart of the matter. He’s gone to Guildford.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cry 'Havoc!,' and let slip the dogs of war.
> 
> * * *

They come skating into Guildford ten days later to find an armed revolt broken out across the beautiful blue and green jewel of a planet. The comm-signals emanating out from downside are rife with panic and exhortation.

No fleet meets them, no one except a strengthened garrison, which is wiped out by the arrival, one after the next, of the large bulk of Jehane’s fleet. No fleet, because Central has either not yet heard, or isn’t yet able to respond.

“They will,” Kuan-yin predicts ominously from her station on the bridge of the _Endeavour_. “They will.”

Dean stands beside her, staring at the huge screen that shows the image of a planet as brilliant as Arcadia, suspended in the dark void of space. “But if Guildford’s so valuable, why hasn’t Central guarded it better? They doubled their space garrison, but—” He shrugs.

Kuan-yin glances at him, then at the two other soldiers who’ve been called up to the bridge with him. The three leaders of the tracking expeditions.

“Look,” she says harshly, pointing to her console, where a map of the largest continent shines across the screen. “They didn’t choose to strengthen their space defense by much. But according to comm-traffic, five centuries of Immortals were posted in the capital and outlying cities three months ago. That’s one piece of information Central kept hidden from us.”

“Jehane’s down there somewhere.” Dean looks up from the map to the globe of Guildford, turning slowly on the screen. “Alone.”

“Not alone,” Kuan-yin scorns. “Jehane’s never alone once he makes himself known.”

At comm, a woman turns in her chair to address Kuan-yin. “Comrade, we have confirmation the former Guildford ‘Independence’ movement has now allied itself totally with Jehane.”

“But there’s still no sign of Comrade Jehane himself?”

“No, Comrade. He hasn’t spoken over any medium we can track, nor has any broadcaster referred to him as being with them.”

“I can’t imagine,” Dean says, beginning to feel impatient with this fencing, “he wants government troops, and certainly not the Immortals, to know where he is. Does he know we’re here yet? He could very well be trapped in one of the cities and unable to move.”

“Precisely.” The intensity of Kuan-yin’s regard makes Dean uncomfortable. “That’s why you three are to choose teams, find him and get him back here.”

“What if he doesn’t want to be found?”

Kuan-yin dismisses this possibility with a cutting gesture. “He’s obviously accomplished his purpose by galvanizing the entire Guildford resistance into open revolt.”

“By galvanizing it under _his_ name,” Dean murmurs under his breath, then louder. “I can’t believe Comrade Jehane would act so impulsively and put himself in such danger.”

“Then you don’t understand him. The unexpected feint wins the engagement. In any case, Comrade,” Kuan-yin’s stance seems threatening as she stares at Dean, one hand resting on the immaculate tuck of her collar, “he knows I can be counted on to safeguard his interests and his person.”

Dean inclines his head, but refrains from comment.

“So?” Kuan-yin swept her scathing gaze over the three soldiers. “You have your orders.”

“Comrade.” The woman at comm turns again. “We have another ship coming in.” A pause while she listens. “The _Royal Sovereign_ , attended by the _Minotaur_ and the _Bellerophon_ , has just entered Guildford system and await orders.”

“There,” Dean says quickly. “Let me get my team from the _Royal Sovereign_.”

Kuan-yin regards him speculatively. “Weren’t you just transferred from that boat?”

“Yes and I’ve worked before with a team now assigned there. Twice. Successfully. Surely that’s in Jehane’s interest.”

Kuan-yin hesitates. Dean realizes in that hesitation that Kuan-yin is reluctant to countermand Jehane’s previous orders, but can think of no good reason, under the circumstances, not to.

“Very well,” she agrees. “Go on. Your team will put down near the capital. You others—”

Dean waits to hear the other team assignments and leaves, Baby trailing after him, at a brisk walk to the shuttle bay.

  


.oOo.

  


“Wonderful,” Jody grunts. “It sounds like we’re headed for another disaster like Epping.”

“No.” Dean rests his palms on the table in the tac room. Captain Framingham let the team meet there while one of the shuttles in the _Royal Sovereign’s_ bay is readied. “That plan was flawed from the start. Abner was overconfident.”

“Are you sure you’re not?” Jody asks. She stretches her legs out and rests one boot, the other crossed atop it, on the table. Her hands she slips behind her head, elbows out.

Dean grins, acknowledging this. “Jehane’s no fool and he’s not impetuous, either. If anything, he calculates every move down to the finest detail.”

“Then what?” Sam asks. “You’re not suggesting he wants you to get in trouble downside?”

“Jehane doesn’t trust you, Dean,” Cas says, the name an endearment in his honeyed drawl. Since Dean’s sudden and hurried arrival on the _Royal Sovereign_ , punctuated by enthusiastic, if brief, greetings from everyone else, he’s maintained a studious distance from Cas. “You’ve been a bit too successful for him, I think.”

“What do you mean?” Victor asks. He traces the curve of his dark hair around an ear with one finger of his artificial hand. “I’m not sure I like the tone of your voice, Comrade.”

“Come now, Comrade.” Cas waves a decisive hand. “Why else do you think he transferred our Dean from a post where he’s clearly doing a great deal of good to one where he’d inevitably be lost among an already established chain of command?”

Victor frowns, but says nothing.

“Why else,” Cas continues, “send us into a series of engagements that were surely designed to rid him of a few people he’d cause to believe might prove more loyal to Dean than to him?”

“Like yourself,” Victor comments, but he rubs one lip absently as he says it, like his thoughts are elsewhere.

Cas shrugs expressively.

“All right,” Dean interjects, not wishing to continue such speculation. He pauses a moment to take stock of his team. Sam, Jody, Victor, and Cas; Pinto and Paisley; Rainbow, Diamond and Cursive; the Mule, Benny, Mick Davies, and Bela Talbot. Brian’s still too valuable in engineering to risk and Alex has agreed to stay with Owen on board the _Royal Sovereign_. Dean suspects in any case, Jody doesn’t want Alex along on such a mission.

“Let’s make some cautious assumptions,” Dean continues. “For instance, let’s assume Jehane accomplished exactly what he meant to do in getting Guildford to combine with him against Central’s forces on the planet. Let’s assume he has something further planned that we don’t know about. Let’s assume he in fact did not know Central had garrisoned Guildford with five centuries of Immortals.”

Jody whistles. “ _Five_ centuries?”

“Finally, let’s assume Kuan-yin really does want him back on the _Endeavour_. Any arguments?”

“That’s pretty general,” Victor objects.

“Well, yes, but we haven’t got much time. Now I’m going to make one final assumption. He’s stuck in the capital, which is being patrolled by one or two centuries of Immortals who either don’t know he’s there or only suspect it. He’s got to get to the countryside to get a shuttle off planet. He has to risk the Immortals to get out.”

“Risk the Immortals?” Victor shakes his head. “You don’t _risk_ Immortals. How can even Jehane hope to fight pass them?”

Dean looks at Jody.

Jody smiles. “Doubtless Comrade Jehane is full of surprises,” she says sarcastically. “Where’s your faith, Victor?”

“Levity’s all very well. I’m talking about the _Immortals_ here.”

“Yes, I know you are,” Jody replies. “I was one.”

His eyes widen. So do most everyone else’s around the table. “But, I thought Immortals couldn’t retire.”

“They can’t.” Jody says this in a tone that sounds tired of the subject. “So there you are. Listen, Dean,” he turns his attention back to Jody, “I’ve a good idea how they’ll post patrols. Especially if they’re looking for one person.”

“Good,” Dean nods. “I was hoping you might. Baby has a map of the capital and a record of all current and recent comm-traffic out of that area. Benny, you’ll assist Baby in trying to use that information to trace the most likely locations Jehane might be holed up in.”

Benny nods.

“We’ll need two shuttles. One will act purely as a decoy. Pinto, can you find me a volunteer who’s willing to risk their life—”

“I’ll do it,” Cas says casually.

“No, you won’t. You’re staying on board this ship, Comrade. The work you’re doing with the Formula as a _physician_ is far more valuable to the citizens of the Riven right now. Don’t you agree?”

At first Cas is too stunned by Dean’s fiery stare to retort, but after a moment he laughs.

“Dean, my heart,” he says softly. “Our old friend Dorothy must’ve inoculated you with her idealism.” He smiles, gently mocking. “I bow to your superior charity.”

“Get your gear,” orders Dean. “We leave in half an hour.”

The room clears quickly except Cas, who doesn’t even bother to rise, and Paisley, who stands, but supports herself on her chair back as if she can’t stand without aid.

“Paisley?” Dean walks across to her and rests a hand on the Ridani girl’s shoulder.

“I were sore ill,” whispers Paisley, looking fragile for a moment. “You know I bain’t scared, min. You know it. But I fear I be ya right sore hindrance to you if I go.”

Dean glances at Cas. He studies Paisley, measuring the girl, but says nothing. “Very well,” Dean agrees. “Then you’re better off staying here.”

Paisley dips a brief curtsey and leaves head down.

“I wonder what that was all about,” Cas says. He stands up. “Dean.”

Dean walks to the door, putting his hand on the pad, but doesn’t open it. “Why did you give me the Formula?”

“I can’t imagine,” Cas says, sounding disgusted, “why you feel the need to ask that question. The answer must be obvious.”

“Only if you assume I can possibly forgive you for murdering that man. He never threatened you.”

Cas’ face shutters. Lips drawing straight and tight, eyes half-closed, breath caught in. Lifting his chin, for an instant he looks impossibly alien to Dean, framed by the startling blue of his hair.

He doesn’t reply.

“Wish me luck,” Dean murmurs as he presses the pad. The door slips open.

Still, he doesn’t reply.

Only after the door slides shut behind Dean, leaving him alone in the dimming room, does he sigh, echoing the door’s soft hush close. “Luck.”

  


.oOo.

  


Dean’s in no mood to discover an argument at the shuttle, but he does so anyway.

“—and who’s going to take care of Owen, pray tell?” Jody stands on the ramp, effectively blocking Alex from boarding the shuttle.

Dean stops on the boarding walk, staring at Alex. The two women remain unaware of him. The rest of the corridor is empty.

Somehow, somewhere, Alex has cobbled together a white Jehanish soldier’s uniform that really fits her. She’s always been too petite to meet any standard soldier’s issue. Most of the splendid dark fall of her hair still hangs loose, but in the front it’s been cunningly braided to keep away from her face.

“Paisley,” Alex replies, hands clenching tight as she stares stubbornly up at Jody. “It’s true enough she was sick later than the rest of us, so she said she’d plead sick and stay here with him.”

“You idiot!” hisses Jody. Dean’s never seen her so angry. “Whatever training you’ve had in the past year hasn’t begun to prepare you for this kind of action. You can’t go.”

Alex sucks in an obvious, big breath of air, like resolve. “It’s not your choice. I’m taking Paisley’s place.”

“You can’t go,” repeats Jody.

Dean’s shocked by the violence of Jody’s tone, especially directed at Alex, whose frailness under this attack is enhanced by the cleverly ornamented lines of the white uniform. Like, yet unlike, Jehane’s people’s uniforms it begins to dissolve away to reveal something unyielding underneath.

“You don’t want me to meet Jehane,” Alex states, shifting her ground so abruptly that the expression on Jody’s face immediately betrays the accuracy of the hit.

“You’re afraid,” Alex continues, sounding anything but fragile now, “I’ll leave you for him when I find out who he really is. But I’ve known all along, Jody. After all those years as a Senator’s daughter, do you think I don’t watch every face that pretends to power? Do you think I don’t measure them and wonder and predict? I grew up with politics. I can’t ignore it like you can.”

She pauses, but Jody merely stands, hands motionless at her side, stiff with an emotion Dean can’t name.

“I don’t know how long you think you’ve been protecting me. I thought you knew me better than that, that you wouldn’t treat me like everyone else does. Something to be protected. Void bless, how my mother and aunt laughed when I said I wanted to join the Immortals.” Her voice holds a bitterness Dean would never have guessed existed there, under the cloud of soft hair and the sweet piquancy of her face.

“I’ve known who Jehane was ever since his revolt really started to threaten Central’s government. Yes, he’s changed the timbre and pitch of his voice a lot and he looks a little different. It’s mostly his carriage, I think, but still. _Still_ , Jody.”

She stops. Pausing, turns her head to see Dean standing some twenty paces behind her in the empty corridor. Turns back. “Let me by,” she says softly.

Jody moves to one side and lets her board the shuttle. Just stands there as Dean walks up to her.

“Jody.”

A single tear snakes down one cheek. “She loves him,” Jody whispers. “Void and Hells. You saw him. How can I compete against _him_?”

“By not competing,” Dean replies softly. “Anyway, do you think Jehane wants the burden of her love?”

“Do I think I care if he wants it or not?” Jody demands in a low, harsh voice. “I care that I’ve lost her. I care that she never once told me what it was she did to break the fabled chastity of the man who was Mendi once. Don’t you think she can do it again? That she doesn’t have some power over him? That even if he doesn’t want her love, he’ll be able to resist it?”

Dean can think of nothing to say. He doesn’t dare attempt to touch Jody, standing there taut and tense as a strung cable.

“She even made a uniform,” Jody says at last, almost inaudible.

“Uniform?”

“Oh yes.” Jody glances at Dean, a spark of irony showing in her expression. “You probably didn’t notice. The differences are subtle. That’s not a Jehanist uniform. Jehanish whites, like ours. Look at the ornamentation and the cut. That’s an Immortals uniform.”

A face in the shuttle door. Benny. “Oh,” he says, relieved. “There you are. We’re three minutes late.”

Jody whirls and walks inside the shuttle.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean says under his breath and follows her.

“Baby and I are picking up some new comm,” Benny informs Dean as he straps into the seat directly behind him and Pinto. “There’s troop movement in the capital. The Immortals are setting up some kind of ring around the very center of the city. I think, from what we can piece together, that they’ve isolated one of the ‘Independence’ movements’ strongholds, or meeting places in one of the downtown buildings.”

Dean looks at Pinto. “Let’s move. Whether or not it’s Jehane, there’s somebody down there worth saving. If only because they might know where Jehane is. Is the decoy ready?”

“Affirmative.” Pinto flips through his controls. “We have engines, detach sequence counting down.”

Benny hands Dean a headset as the shuttle detaches and, after separation, cants with a flash of engine to begin the descent.

“How many centuries are we up against?” he asks. “Can you give me an estimate?”

“Two, Baby guesses. Do I transmit to the _Endeavour_?”

“No. For now we maintain silence. If we locate Jehane, Kuan-yin will send in backup, probably on our tail, to pick him up. We’ve got to find him without alerting Central’s people that we’re looking.”

Benny glares at Pinto, who sits intent at his controls, then leans back in his chair. “We’re not really going in twenty meters up, with that decoy riding in two hundred meters above us, are we? Even Pinto—”

“Benny. We’ve got to get in undetected. We don’t have time to go overland. By this time, you ought to know that if anyone can do it, Pinto can.”

Benny’s lips twitch like he feels he has to say something, but can’t bring himself to. “I suppose,” he says at last, grudgingly.

Dean chuckles. “I’ll bet that hurt.”

His lips tighten and he turns stiffly back to his console. Dean listens in.

“—we have achieved complete command of the ten block circumference. All civilians are now being evacuated through our points of entry. Acknowledge.”

“Accepted. Lieutenant, give me an estimate of time remaining to clear the area before your troops can move in. Acknowledge.”

“Accepted. Due to the necessity of careful search procedures and the opportunity to close the ring as each building is cleared, we estimate the operation will take over six hours. Acknowledge.”

“Accepted. Commodore Uriel wishes a complete disposition sent by courier before—”

Dean plugs his screen into Baby and plots out what he can deduce of the Immortals’ positions around the central hub of Guildford’s capital. Behind and to either side of him, Sam, Jody and Victor lean forward as he shows them his map.

“They’ve trapped some people in here,” he says. “We’ll have to send ourselves in if we get no clue before that whether Jehane’s among those trapped.”

They discuss alternatives as the shuttles streak downward through the atmosphere. From the main cabin behind, he can hear only a bit of desultory talk between the Ridanis.

“Two minutes to split,” Pinto tells them. “Hold on to your seats.”

Dean, glancing up, thinks he catches Pinto smiling. Then the shuttle banks hard and the green fields of Guildford scream past a seeming hand’s breath beneath them. He can just make out the decoy shuttle above, running slightly before them.

Jody, Victor and Benny all shut their eyes. Sam and Dean watch as the far suggestion of hills resolve into a distant city, approaching fast.

Anti-ship fire explodes out of distant emplacements still hidden from Dean’s eye.

Baby whistles and he turns up his headset.

“—inform Commodore Uriel that we have confirmation the traitor calling himself Jehane is among those still within the ring. Advise. Acknowledge.”

“Accepted. Absolute imperative. Jehane must not escape. You know your orders. I want all civilians out of there and a full assault to—”

“All stations. All stations. This is post A7. We have a breakout assault in progress. Repeat—”

“Benny! Get me their exact position and feed it directly into Pinto’s grid. Pinto. Can you get there? Through the city?”

Pinto pauses long enough to cast a quick, controlled glance across at the fire peppering the decoy above. The city grows, doubles, quadruples in size as they race toward it.

A sudden explosion from above and a spray of light and fire.

“Braking,” Pinto says tersely as he glances at the grid that now shows the intricate lines of the capital’s layout and the blinking light that pinpoints A7’s position. “We’re going in.”

“I hope he got out before his boat blew,” Sam has time to say before Pinto targets them for the first high buildings.

“Damn my eyes,” Jody whispers as Pinto’s light hand on the controls take them scant meters above and sometimes scant meters between, the maze of Guildford’s capital. “I wonder how many windows we’re shattering.”

It takes eight harrowing minutes, each one pulled into an agony of stretched out time, before they draw their first fire.

“I’m going street level.” Pinto’s voice sounds calm and strangely detached.

“Four minutes to rendezvous,” Benny says, so taut with nerves that he can barely speak. “Reinforcements coming from B and C areas, not the adjacent postings. I get constant assault readings still from post A7. Aren’t we supposed to wait for the backups?”

“We don’t have time.” Dean glances to either side. “Jody. Victor. Get your squads. We’ll hit the ground running.”

“Dean I should be coming with you.” Sam again objects to the plan that has him staying behind with the shuttle.

“No I need you to hold the shuttle Sam. Once we have Jehane, or whoever is down there, we’re going to need to make a quick exit. That means I need someone I trust to hold no matter what comes.” Dean can see that Sam wants to argue more, but he looks back over the shuttle and nods his head.

“I’ll make sure we’re here when you need us.” The entire conversation between them had been carried out in half whispers and Dean leans into his brother for a moment before indicating that it’s time.

It proves easier, despite the sharp, hard maneuvering of the shuttle, to get squads arrayed in the back cabin, because they don’t have to watch walls whip past the canted wings, so close that it seems impossible they don’t crash. Once a heavy object shatters against the hull, rocking them and throwing half the people to the floor, but with a brief flare from the engines the shuttle goes on.

Three minutes. Four. They can hear the muffled ricochet of firing above the roar of the engines. Small shudders shiver through the hull.

Benny: “We’re down.”

Jody’s team is out first, crouching, running down the ramp, followed by Victor’s, and lastly Dean, leading Alex, the Mule and Rainbow.

They use the bulk of the shuttle’s belly to cover them as they sprint to the edge of the street. The shuttle itself takes up most of the street span. For an instant Dean marvels at Pinto’s incredible piloting and then the first spray of fire shatters windows above his head and he waves his group forward.

Post A7 is situated to guard in towards the city’s center, the cordoned off area, but Immortals are never unprepared for any eventuality. Already two large guns yaw around to face the new threat and white-uniformed soldiers scatter to adjust their shielding.

A hot explosion obliterates one of the guns. Dean presses his people forward to the next scrap of cover under the protection of the boiling cloud of fire and steam that heaves up from the hit.

He throws himself down on the pavement and sprays covering fire across the position as Jody and her pair dart forward. Beside him, Rainbow swears. Dean glances back to see blood streaming down the Ridani’s leg.

The other gun levels and aims.

“Break forward,” Dean shouts. They dive ahead as the masonry four meters behind burns and shatters under the gun’s fire. “Rainbow, cover from here when we move forward.”

Fire arcs through the post and several Immortals fall, but Dean can’t tell the direction it came from. From the building above Jody, a new rack of shooting opens up. Victor’s gone up to add a third angle to their fire.

His firing pins down the far corner of the post. Dean runs forward and crouches. The Mule and Alex split behind him and break into a sprint to hit the nearest opaque shielding of the post.

He throws himself around it without a break and has the briefest glimpse of a grim faced man lifting his rifle before Dean shoots him. Fire ricochets around him. He catches a glimpse of Jody grappling with an Immortal, fighting for his gun.

The second big gun explodes. Searing waves of heat flood over him and Dean yanks the dead Immortal over him to shield himself. After a moment he shoves his rifle out and fires at the next rank of shielding.

“Wait,” Alex hisses, appearing beside him, crouching, eyes intent ahead. “He’s broken through.”

An Immortal falls, shot with scathing accuracy through the head. A second comes tumbling backward. An instant later a new, brown clad figure appears and shoots the struggling Immortal.

Brilliant gold hair. Several figures materialize behind him. To the right Dean sees the white uniform flash out of concealment, but Jehane is already launching himself into the attack in a manner so reminiscent of Jody that Dean wonders how anyone can ever mistake his fighting for anything but Immortal trained.

Dean lifts his gun, but can’t trust himself to shoot. Beside him, Alex calmly aims, closes her eyes and fires. The Immortal falls at Jehane’s feet. “Did you just close your eyes?” Dean questions but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Don’t do that again.”

Jehane turns. Looks across the gap—not so great, Dean realizes now in the fleeting lull afforded by this tiny victory—between him and Alex.

And stares.

It’s an instant’s reaction. Across fifteen meters Dean can see his face clearly, even as heat simmers across it, melding with wisps of steam. He can see the lines of Alexander’s posture transform as he recognizes the figure staring back at him.

For that instant, Dean knows without question that Jehane’s too stunned by this vision of Alex—small, fragile seeming, and yet utterly at ease in Immortal whites—to speak.

More figures, perhaps Jehane’s entire group, stumble into the relative security of post A7’s shielded center. Most are wounded. Dean stands and moves forward.

He finds Jody beside him. A welt, oozing blood, scores her hand.

“Fucking idiot,” she swears. “He isn’t even wearing a helmet.”

“He looks prettier that way.” Dean hails the nearest refugee, grasping his arm. “Get your group moving!” he snaps. “Board the shuttle just past here. Move!”

A few glance toward Jehane, but most hustle past Dean, crouching as Victor, in his position above, starts firing past them.

In the muddy swirl of their retreat, wounded are dragged or carried along, Jehane still stares at Alex. Even when a huddle of refugees cross his line of sight he stares, like he can see right through them.

A black-clad man walks up to him. “Comrade. How can we thank you? We would never have gotten out of there without you. You were magnificent.”

With a visible effort, Jehane returns to himself and transfers his gaze to the man before him. “You leave now to continue the battle here?” he asks, smooth like nothing has interrupted his drive out of the city.

“Yes. Thank you. Thank you. We’ll carry on the fight.” The man grabs Jehane’s hand, pumping it, then takes a step back and gives him a half bow more worshipful than respectful.

“Fall back,” Dean says. When Alex doesn’t respond, he gestures to the Mule. “Carry her if you have to. We’ve got to go now!”

Above, Victor keeps up a steady stream of fire, but through it Dean can hear the movement of heavy ground vehicles and a new echo of fire nearing them.

The black-clad man hurries away into a narrow alleyway, and Jehane jogs gracefully forward to stop beside Dean.

“It seems,” he says, “that I’m in your debt.”

“Jody,” Dean says quickly, “get back in covering position and call Victor down.”

Jody acts immediately, waving back the two Ridanis with her, but flashes a brief glance of vivid anger back over her shoulder at Jehane as she retreats.

Dean turns back to find Jehane still regarding him thoughtfully.

“I’m not waiting for the reinforcements to show up,” he snaps, “and after all of the trouble I’ve been to, I’m damned if I’m going to let you either.”

A final barrage from Victor’s gun triggers a shuddering explosion down the street.

Jehane smiles, but it’s a wistful and surprisingly vulnerable expression. “I’d forgotten how beautiful she is,” he says softly, “gracing that uniform that was once a badge of honor.”

“Shit,” Dean feels a sudden cold prickle of misgiving run up his back. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t’ve brought her.”

But Jehane’s already off, sprinting for the shuttle, and doesn’t hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Minotaur_ : **HMS Minotaur** was a 74-gun third-rate ship of the line of the Royal Navy. Minotaur was towards the rear of Nelson’s wing of his fleet at Trafalgar. Captain Charles John Moore Mansfield pledged to his assembled crew that he would stick to any ship he engaged "till either she strikes or sinks – or I sink". Late in the battle he deliberately placed Minotaur between the damaged Victory and an attacking French ship; he was later awarded a sword and gold medal for his gallantry.
> 
> _Bellerophon_ : **HMS Bellerophon** was a 74-gun third-rate ship of the line of the Royal Navy. Known to sailors as the "Billy Ruffian", she fought in three fleet actions, the _Glorious First of June_ , the _Battle of the Nile_ and the _Battle of Trafalgar_ , and was the ship aboard which Napoleon finally surrendered, ending 22 years of nearly continuous war with France.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The opportunity of defeating the enemy is provided by the enemy himself.
> 
> * * *

With effortless efficiency Jehane gets his refugees strapped in by the time Victor and his pair come pelting up the ramp.

Pinto has the shuttle off the ground before Sam can begin retracting the ramp and above the buildings just as Jehane straps into the seat behind him, Dean sitting where Jody had on the trip down.

“Hold on to your seats!” shouts Benny as Pinto takes them up at an angle and velocity that brings screams from the wounded and gasps from everyone else.

Black engulfs Dean’s vision as a vise grips his chest, fading to a haze of spots and grey and then he can see again. The back of Pinto’s head and the stark tattoos visible between his throat and collar. The curving gleam of Baby blocking his view of Benny. Jehane’s profile, golden hair brushing along the sculpted line of his cheek, lips parted slightly under the strain of their climb.

No one speaks as Pinto, body relaxed and yet entirely focused, guides the shuttle up. From the cabin behind, Dean can hear weeping. He can’t tell who it is. Beside him, Victor curses softly under his breath, mostly insults about ‘damned tattoos.’

Slowly the vise lightens as Pinto slacks off their climb. Dean finds he can take real breaths. Victor lets out a long sigh.

“Cursed Ridani,” he swears in a good natured voice. “If you weren’t such a damnable good pilot we could’ve gotten blown up on the way in and not had to suffer through these damned Gs. I’m too old for this.”

In the clear plastic of the shuttle’s windshield, Dean can see the ghost of Pinto’s reflection, all geometric lines etched in faint traceries and the corners of his mouth quirking up. Although Dean can’t be sure.

“I’ve a signal from the decoy pilot,” Benny says. “He’s downside and still alive. That’s all I can tell.”

“Good. Monitor the full range of comm—” Dean breaks off and glances at Jehane.

“Interesting,” he murmurs. “A Ridani pilot.”

Dean watches him watch Pinto. He blinks once, twice, like there’s a clue here that he’s missing and wishes to find.

“Ah,” he says suddenly. “Senator Alastair’s son.”

Nothing in Pinto’s body betrays his reaction to that statement. Dean glances at the windshield, but the angle of light has erased his reflection.

“Where are we going?” Benny asks.

Jehane turns his head to look at Dean, not at all like he’s deferring to him, but rather like he’s wondering why Benny needs to ask that question. Dean notes each occupant of the forward cabin: Pinto, Benny, Baby, Sam and Victor and then of course, he understands.

Dean wonders, suddenly, if Jehane’s angry at his appropriation of his former crew from the _Royal Sovereign_. He can tell nothing from his expression.

“To the _Endeavour_ ,” he replies. Then he unstraps himself and walks into the main cabin to check on the wounded.

  


.oOo.

  


Jehane keeps Dean and Baby with him when they leave the shuttle bay. His first words, coming onto the bridge, are to Kuan-yin.

“Have you positioned the fleet as I directed?”

For a fleeting moment she looks irritated. “Yes.”

“Then,” he sits in the captain’s chair and swivels it around to face Dean, tapping the comm on his console, “send the shuttle and crew back to the _Royal Sovereign_ ,” he orders, watching Dean. He does his best to keep his face and stance expressionless. “The Miescher Formula,” Jehane asks. “What is it?”

Surprise betrays Dean. He simply stares at him, unable to answer, or not to answer convincingly.

Jehane lifts his hands, palm to palm, and rests his lips on his thumbs as he studies Dean. He’s aware of Kuan-yin staring at them until a slight movement of Jehane’s head sends the woman back to her duties. At the other stations, the crew remain intent on their work.

Tapping the comm again. “Contact Captain Framingham on the _Royal Sovereign_. Have him send his physician here. I have casualties I want him to look at.”

He resumes his study of Dean.

Dean’s recovered himself, somewhat. Baby blinks silently at him.

“Request permission to change out of battle dress,” Dean asks formally.

Jehane smiles. His brown jacket and trousers are soiled with grime and stained with dried blood, but he looks perfectly at ease in them. “Granted. Although I’ll want you back on the bridge once you have—”

“Comrade!” The woman at comm, her tone urgent. “The _Bellerophon_ reports two ships not ours entering low and fast in zeta octant—no—and two more in Gamma, reported by—wait”—she frowns as reports start to flood the comm—“Another three—” Breaking off again.

Jehane dismisses Dean with a wave of his hand as he settles a headset over his golden hair. “All fleet on red. We have contact. Open fire.”

Dean leaves the bridge, but he feels it wise under the circumstances not to change out of battle dress. Having no cabin, he walks to Medical. Jennings lets him clean up and has one of his assistants go to Armory for a full refit and reload of his rifle and oxygen pack.

Baby monitors the battle on screen over the next hours.

The _Endeavour_ doesn’t even fire a shot.

“Void bless,” Dean murmurs as Central’s incoming fleet takes scathing fire and shatters under its concentration. “He must’ve planned this out from the beginning. The entire Guildford revolt must’ve been the decoy to lure the fleet in here piecemeal, in a hurry.”

Jennings regards him, puzzled. “What did you expect? He’s Jehane. By the way, would you mind if I took a new sample of your blood? I still have no idea what that illness is. Although I did get a suggestion to—”

He looks up as the door to Medical opens and stands up, startled.

Dean turns and stands as well.

Jehane has entered, followed by Cas.

Cas takes in the room with a comprehensive glance, not giving Dean an instant’s longer glance than Jennings or the bank of medical equipment. Yet Dean knows that Cas somehow savored his presence, carefully and completely, in some way that the others can’t detect, not even Jehane, who keeps his watchful gaze on Castiel and seems ever so slightly displeased that he doesn’t have a stronger reaction to Dean.

“Comrade Doctor,” Jehane addresses Jennings, imbuing the title with a wealth of praise. “Would you leave us a moment?”

He nods and retreats into the adjacent ward.

Jehane looks first at Dean and then at Cas. “I’d like to repeat something to you,” he states, not a request.

“Good gracious,” drawls Cas in his most aggravating tone, “then I hope you’ll let me sit down.”

Dean gives the barest shake of his head, warning Cas, but Jehane merely waves at a nearby chair. Cas sighs and brings it forward, seating himself in it.

Dean stands still, hands clasped behind his back. For the first time in his life he tries consciously to efface himself, just as, he realizes, Bobby had long ago learned to make himself inconspicuous or unthreatening, if circumstances warranted.

Jehane keeps his face carefully neutral and yet the brilliant intelligence that animates his charisma can never be disguised or hidden.

“‘Oh, he did, did he?’” Jehane says without inflection. “‘But how could he know—’ ‘The Miescher Formula?’ ‘Fuck’ ‘I don’t believe it.’ ‘No, Baby. Of course not. But—’ ‘Yes?’ ‘That’s all he said?’ ‘Leaving me stuck here for the present, of course. All right. I’ll play his game a little longer.’ ‘Let’s hope so.’”

Dean says nothing.

“Dean,” Cas drawls, deliberately provoking. “You ought to remember that on a ship like this your every word will be taped and played back.”

“What is the Miescher Formula?” Jehane asks smoothly, not rising to the bait. “What game are you playing, Comrade Seraphim?”

Cas hooks his hands behind his head and leans back into the cushions of his chair. He smiles. “That would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

“My thought, exactly,” Jehane replies. Although his voice is gentle, the threat is clear.

Jehane’s wrist-comm beeps and a breathless woman’s voice speaks.

“Comrade Jehane! Please return to the bridge!”

He lifts his wrist. “Is there some trouble? I thought at last tally that all was in hand.”

“We have a new ship, Comrade. It came in at theta octant, where there isn’t even a charted window. And she’s—Void bless us, Comrade,” even over the thin speaker, the tremor in her voice is obvious, “she’s huge. I’ve never seen a hull that size. She doesn’t answer to comm. So far cautious fire has made no penetration whatsoever.”

“Has the cavalry arrived at last?” Cas murmurs obscurely.

“What the Void is ‘cavalry’?” Dean demands, shaken out of his stance by the sudden instinct that Cas knows who has just arrived.

Jehane lowers his wrist and rakes them with his glance. “Come with me to the bridge,” he orders.

Cas shrugs and stands like it’d be too much trouble to resist, but the gesture is lost on Jehane because he’s already turned to walk to the door, expecting their compliance. Dean follows him silently, Cas at his heels.

The atmosphere on _Endeavour’s_ bridge is taut with uncertainty. As they enter, the man on scan looks up.

“Comrade.” His face is creased with worry. “I’ve had tac running through all our records. Central’s battle fleet has nothing this big listed in our files.”

“Status?” Jehane asks as he sits down in the captain’s chair, slipping on his headset and levering out the chair’s console and screen to display over his lap.

“The ship has stopped at the following coordinates.” Scan reels off a list of numbers. “She’s currently making no movement whatsoever, hostile or friendly.”

“No response to our overtures on any channel,” says the woman at comm.

“We’re scattershooting fire from three ships, close enough to warn but not to hit. There’s been no reply or action of any kind,” adds the officer at weapons.

“I don’t think,” scan says suddenly “that ship cares one whit about us. We could just as well be flak on entry. Something just to fly through.”

Jehane’s face is a study in disapproval crossed by the intense interest with which he studies the specs unfolding on the screen before him.

Beside Dean, Cas sighs and shifts his weight from one leg to the other.

Jehane glances up. “Do you know anything about this?” he asks mildly.

“Is there some reason I ought to?” Cas retorts lazily.

Jehane sighs, as ostentatious a gesture as any Cas has ever used, but toned down for all that into an expression of long suffering patience. “I won’t bother to insult your intelligence by replying directly to that question, Comrade. I somehow doubt that you’re unaware that we met, albeit not personally, at Nevermore Station some time ago. I haven’t time to fence as I’m in the middle of a rather large and important engagement.”

As if on cue, comm speaks up. “ _Orion_ reports that the cruiser _Colossus_ has taken a disabling hit and has officially withdrawn from the action. _Phoebe_ reports that the cutters _Achilles_ and _Sirius_ are in retreat, heading for an epsilon octant window, and _Royal Sovereign_ reports the cruiser _Defiance_ is dead in space and its attendant _Minotaur_ is in full pursuit of an unidentified cutter class ship. _Naiad_ reports it has sustained irreparable damage to its weapons systems. _Revenge_ reports it’s evacuating the merchantman _Entreprenante_ , whose hull has blown.” She pauses. “Shall I go on?”

“No. Let Comrade Kuan-yin coordinate the data for now.” Jehane returns his attention to Cas. “Now, do you?”

Scan swears, a long, obscene oath. “Another ship just appeared in theta octant. It’ll take time to analyze its spec, but we’ve got no immediate match on our long-range—”

“Comrade!” Comm breaks in. “I have comm traffic on a narrow beam between the incoming and the resting vessel. Transmitting both ways.”

“Can you break in?”

She shakes her head. “It’s too tight a channel. We’re too far away in any case. I’ve got—I’ll put _Naiad_ on it. They’re closest.”

Dean takes a step forward. “Comrade Jehane. Let me try. I think I can get a reply from the first ship.”

Jehane cocks his head to one side to examine Dean. The careful line of his mouth lends his stare a precision that seems piercing. “Ah.” One side of his mouth quirks up. “You’ve finished observing our little sparring match and have decided to act, I see. Thank you.”

“Dean,” Cas speaks in an undertone that speaks volumes.

“Someone has to tell her about Bobby,” Dean replies. “I intend to do it—in person, if Comrade Jehane will let me.”

Jehane smiles and waves Dean towards comm. His eyes sparkle with interest as Dean walks across to the station and after waiting for the woman to set his channel, leans closer to the mike and speaks.

“I’m calling from the—the—” He hesitates, trying to recall Bobby’s words on the tiny bridge of the _Painted Lady_ , caught in an isolated backwater of space facing an imposing ship which they can’t possibly outrun. “The region of the summer stars. I’m calling for Ellen Harvelle.”

For a long moment only the hiss of the channel answers him.

Then, her voice.

“Who is this?”

Jehane’s eyes narrow as he takes in the brevity and unselfconscious authority of the question.

Dean glances at Jehane, returns to the mike. “This is Singer’s son. I have a personal message for you, if I have your permission to come aboard.”

“Wait,” commands Jehane. “I want to know who you are speaking to and what intentions they have here.”

“Who I am doesn’t concern you, Alexander Jehane,” Ellen tells him, across the channel, as if Jehane had spoken directly to her and not to Dean. “My intentions have nothing to do with your revolution. You need not fear that I intend to interfere in any way. I’m merely here looking for someone.”

Dean feels with sudden numbing certitude that he knows who Ellen is looking for: Bobby.

“That is all very nice,” Jehane replies conversationally, “but what assurances can you give me that it’s true?”

Ellen laughs, shattering the crackle of static. “I don’t give assurances. But neither do I expect my word to be questioned.”

If Dean hadn’t been glancing that way at that moment, he wouldn’t have seen the look of absolute, utter fury that transformed Jehane’s face for an instant. Then he blinks and it’s gone, obliterated into his usual bright, controlled intensity.

“Go, then,” he says calmly. “Give her what information she seeks and return. Your robot will remain safely with me, here, while you go.”

“I don’t think—”Dean starts to object and stops. After all of his protestations of not knowing League space, he’s just given Jehane ample reason to disbelieve him and to distrust him. There’s no room in his revolution for a Ellen Harvelle. Dean still has responsibilities to the people on the _Royal Sovereign_. So if Jehane choses to hold Baby as hostage for his safe return—

Signing off comm, he gives Baby brief instructions to remain behind and with a salute to Jehane, leaves the bridge. Cas follows him.

“What are you doing?” Dean asks as he waits for the elevator.

“Going with you.”

“Did Jehane give you permission?”

“I wasn’t aware I had to ask for it,” Cas says. “Ought I to?”

“Well, he didn’t stop you,” Dean mutters, “so he must know what he’s doing.”

Cas laughs. It’s not a complimentary sound. “Jehane’s seething with rage in there, my heart. If he hates me because I’m nothing he can control, then what do you suppose he feels about Ellen, who could blast his revolution out of the sky with her single ship?”

“But Ellen isn’t interested in the revolution.”

“Very true,” Cas agrees. “But Ellen is a link back to the League and if the League rediscovers Riven space officially and arrives here in all of its advanced technological glory to welcome the Riven back into the community of humankind, then where is Jehane?”

“Maybe he’s exactly where he wants to be.” Dean frowns at Cas, too angered by his presence to admit that he’d had the same thought himself. They step inside the elevator and he keys in the sequence for the shuttle bay. “If the government of the League is as representative and equal as you claim it is.”

“Oh, yes,” Cas says with a tone much like sarcasm in his voice. “Oh, it is. That’s why they hunted down people like me and Bobby and Pamela. They dislike being reminded of what humanity once was, before the golden age. ‘O villains, vipers, damn’d without redemption! Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!’”

“And murderers.” Dean closes one hand into a fist and sets it with deliberate weight on the wall beside the elevator keypad, turning his head away from Cas. The thought of what that miner’s body must have looked like, after death, impinges with awful clarity on his mind. He shut his eyes. Nick Munroe. By naming him, even in his own mind, Dean isn’t sure if he’s making it better or worse.

“Dean.” The word seem forced from him. “Dean?” The door opens and Cas follows him out of the elevator. “At least let me try to explain.”

He keeps walking, doesn’t turn even as he speaks. “You should’ve explained a long time ago.”

Cas says nothing. Continues to say nothing the rest of the way to the shuttle bay, on the boarding, the detach, the long trip to Ellen’s ship. Dean whistles under his breath, wishing Baby was here to talk to—but she’s not.

Cas shifts, with an almost inaudible sigh, in the seat behind Dean. He realizes that although he can’t hear Cas breathing, he could feel it, like the pulse of his own heart and breath. Dean hasn’t spent so long a time in such close proximity to Cas since Kansas Station and he curses himself for letting him come along now, when there’s no reason for it.

Duty impels him to tell Ellen face to face about Bobby’s fate. Duty and his instinct that Bobby wouldn’t want Ellen to discover this truth in any cold and impersonal manner. But there’s no reason for Cas to attend, except to pretend that he’s finally going to explain what he’s all along avoided explaining, in order to dissolve Dean’s adamancy.

No reason for him to sit so close and with every slight movement remind Dean of his presence, his soft breath, the feel of his skin and the light, clean scent of his hair, the satisfied shuttering of his eyes while—

“Damn it,” Dean swears. Behind him, Cas chuckles, the way he did when he—

Dean clenches his hands on the chair rests and holds on tight for the remainder of the flight.

Ash meets them at the docking bay. He welcomes them graciously, even gives Dean a brotherly hug, but a suggestion of a frown tightens the lines at his eyes and mouth and he seems preoccupied.

“Just in time,” he says obliquely, glancing at Cas, as he leads them to an elevator that takes them somehow straight to the bridge. Dean remembers how far they’d had to walk the first time and he wonders if Ellen’s business is in fact not what he’d initially expected it to be. Not news of Bobby, but someone else and this hurried shortcut to the bridge an indication of a preoccupation that extends beyond Ash to the entire ship. Whose ship came in behind her? And he remembers that Dagon’s been looking for Ellen, on her ‘hunt.’

As the doors open onto the bridge, Castiel takes a step out after Ash, stops and takes an audible breath in, like he’s scenting the air. “Just in time for _what_?” he asks sharply.

To their right, a second elevator door opens and a man tumbles out and rushes forward to throw himself at the foot of Ellen’s dais. “I’ve worked for you—good service!—for seven years!” he cries. “It’s your sworn duty to protect me!”

The man’s stark fear permeates the bridge like a rank smell as Ellen’s chair swivels slowly around, revealing her. Face set as in stone, she regards the man at her feet in awful silence.

“What did he do?” whispers Dean.

Ash shrugs, answering him in a low voice. “It’s the typical story. Asteroid miner comes in to some station on leave, runs across a sweet adolescent Je’jiri girl in full raging fever who’s slipped her clan for a night on the prowl. Of course, all intelligent people are avoiding her like the plague and trying to get calls through to whatever ship has hired out her clan. But people like him usually figure that as long as the Je’jiri isn’t already mated, they’re safe. Brainless idiot. Then of course once he realized he’s marked, he ran and tried to cover his trail by pretending it’d never happened.”

At last Ellen speaks. “You lied to me.” Her anger is bone deep and implacable.

“Oh god, oh god,” the man weeps. “What else could I do? I had to leave. They were on my trail already.”

“You know the law.” Her voice hardens with each word she speaks. “‘No human will mate or have intercourse in any sexual or sensual fashion with Je’jiri.’ Code ex-eleven-oh-four of the Codified Law of League space. Which even a privateer acknowledges.”

He stammers something incoherent, lifts a hand to his hair. His forehead bears a brilliant red scar, like a brand, puckered across his dark skin.

“‘In dreams you hunt your prey,’” Castiel murmurs in an expressionless voice, “‘baying like hounds whose thought will never rest.’”

Dean, glancing at him, sees that he’s strung so tight that the merest touch might shatter him. The usual bronze of his skin is washed out to a ghostly pallor, accentuated by the unearthly color of his hair.

“But she was still an adolescent and she consented—” the man yammers. His gaze darting to the elevator doors, stops for a frozen heartbeat on Castiel’s still, taut form and skips back to Ellen.

“Then you’re either uncontrollably libidinous or simply stupid. The Je’jiri _are not human_. Their ways are not our ways.”

“They’re savages,” mutters Ash under his breath. “Little better than animals.”

“You’ve violated every tenet, the very foundation, of their culture, as admittedly alien and archaic as it may seem to us. Dagon took the hunt on and now they’ve caught up with you. _I_ cannot stop it.”

He lays in crumpled anguish at her feet, weeping with noisy and awful terror. The bridge crew stand utterly silent, watching him without compassion. “But you’re Ellen Harvelle,” he sobs. “ _You_ could stop them.”

She stands up. “I’m Ellen Harvelle,” she says hard as diamond, “and I do not suffer fools.”

To Dean’s left, the third set of elevator doors open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Orion_ : **HMS Orion** was a 74-gun third rate ship of the line of the British Royal Navy. Under Captain Edward Codrington, she took part in the Battle of Trafalgar where, with _Ajax_ , she forced the surrender of the French 74-gun ship _Intrépide_.
> 
> _Colossus_ : **HMS Colossus** was a 74-gun third-rate ship of the line of the Royal Navy. _Colossus_ fought at Trafalgar under Captain James Nicoll Morris, in Collingwood's lee column. After sustaining fire from the enemy fleet, she eventually ran by the French _Swiftsure_ , and became entangled with _Argonaute_. Towards the end of the exchange of fire between the two ships, Captain Morris was hit by a shot from one of _Argonaute's guns, just above the knee. _Argonaute_ broke free from _Colossus_ after this, whilst the British ship was engaging both _Swiftsure_ and the Spanish _Bahama_ , on her other side. _Bahama_ surrendered when _Colossus_ brought down her main mast, and _Swiftsure_ did likewise after combined fire from _Colossus_ and _Orion_ brought down her main and mizzen masts._
> 
> __
> 
> _Phoebe_ : **HMS Phoebe** was a 36-gun fifth rate of the Royal Navy. The arrival of the additional frigates _Phoebe_ , _Naiad_ , _Sirius_ , _Juno_ , and _Niger_ off Cadiz allowed Nelson to detach them to disrupt local shipping supplying provisions for the Franco-Spanish Combined Fleet in Cadiz.  
>  In October, the frigate squadron was acting as the eyes of the British fleet. When the Combined Fleet put to sea on 19 October, _Phoebe_ was first in line, followed by _Naiad_ and the third rate _Defiance_. Capel spotted the Combined Fleet's exit and notified Nelson. As the combined fleet approached the British over the next couple of days, the frigates shadowed it, reporting on its movements.  
>  During the subsequent Battle of Trafalgar, _Phoebe_ relayed Nelson's signals to the rest of fleet, and remained close to the action although she did not actually engage the enemy. In the gale that followed a few days later _Donegal_ and _Phoebe_ assisted two of the prizes, _Swiftsure_ and _Bahama_ , with the result that they were saved.
> 
> _Defiance_ : **HMS Defiance** participated in the Battle of Trafalgar on 21 October, whilst under the command of Captain Philip Charles Durham, who claimed that 'she was the fastest 74 gun ship in the British fleet'.
> 
> _Sirius_ : **HMS Sirius** was a 36-gun fifth-rate frigate of the Royal Navy. _Sirius_ joined the British fleet under Vice Admiral Lord Nelson at Trafalgar. Entering battle to the north of the weather column, her station placed her only a few cable lengths from _HMS Victory_.
> 
> _Naiad_ : **HMS Naiad** was a Royal Navy fifth-rate frigate that served in the Napoleonic Wars. During the Battle of Trafalgar, _Naiad_ was too small to take part in the battle itself. Instead, she lay to windward of the action. After the battle she towed _Belleisle_ to Gibraltar and destroyed the grounded _Monarca_.
> 
> _Revenge_ : **HMS Revenge** was a 74-gun third rate ship of the line of the Royal Navy. Sir John Henslow designed her as one of the large class 74s; she was the only ship built to her draught. As a large 74, she carried 24-pounder guns on her upper gun deck, rather than the 18-pounder guns found on the middling and common class 74s. Newly commissioned, and captained by Robert Moorsom, she fought at the Battle of Trafalgar, where she sailed in Collingwood's column.
> 
> _Entreprenante_ : **HMS Entreprenante** (also _Entreprenant_ ), was a 10-gun cutter that the Royal Navy captured from the French in 1798. The British commissioned her in 1799 and she served during the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars, participating in the Battle of Trafalgar. Where she was the smallest British warship there. _Entreprenante_ accompanied the Lee (Blue) Division under Vice-admiral Collingwood, but she took no actual part in the fighting.  
>  Towards the end of the battle, though, together with the schooner _Pickle_ and boats from _Prince_ and _Swiftsure_ , she took part in rescuing some 200 men from the French ship _Achille_ after _Achille_ exploded. Young also found the _Bahama_ , whose Spanish crew had overthrown the British prize crew and were attempting to take the ship back to Cadiz. Thanks to Young's fast message to Collingwood, the British swiftly retook Bahama and brought her to Gibraltar.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean finds his answers, but did he really want to know?
> 
> * * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I know it seems like I'm posting a day early, and that is literally what I'm doing. But, I'm also changing my entire posting schedule. Until now I've been posting twice a week on Mondays and Thursdays. This was because it fit the best with my work life. This week my work hours changed, rather dramatically. So from today, the best schedule for me to maintain for posting, will be three times a week, on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays.
> 
> Which means the Long Road Home will now complete on the 17th of April, instead of the 20th of May.
> 
> * * *

In that first instant, Dean can almost believe that Cas has somehow moved from his side to the elevator without his knowing, to emerge again onto the bridge. A kind of vivid double entrance made possible by some quirk in his character.

He takes two springing steps out of the elevator and stops. He’s the same height, crowned by startlingly blue hair. Then he turns and Dean sees his face.

The shock of the absolute inhumanity of the man’s—the alien’s—features shakes Dean. First, the strange, unearthly pallor of his skin matched against brilliant green glowing eyes pierced by an acute and vital intelligence. The features of his face have a delicacy that lends it an almost angelic cast, a beauty that might be said to surpass human beauty, but for—

But for its contrast with the alien’s behavior. He freezes, like any hunting thing and casts his head about, eyes half-shuttered, like he’s smelling out the room, scenting and placing each individual. The movement repels Dean. It seems grossly primitive, as violent as Kansas’ unpredictable storms, tied by tide and wind and gravity and the unbreakable bond of the gross senses to the cycles of earth, to the unforgiving grip of the deepest, oldest part of the brain.

The man on the steps of the dais has ceased weeping and now gropes up to a crouch, gathering himself in like an animal driven to its last, desperate fight.

More of them emerge from the elevator, two, four, seven in all. Each scents the room. The male who’d first come in has locked his gaze on his prey and he trembles, like the wait is unbearable. He lifts his hands. Dean sees that each finger is tipped with a pale, sharp claw.

A strong, bitter smell permeates the bridge. _Their_ scent.

Except for the trembling male, the rest, having finished their scenting, stand stock still. One steps forward, Dean thinks it’s a female, although it’s hard to tell.

When she speaks, she speaks directly to Ellen in a voice deeply accented with alien sounds. Her teeth are a carnivore’s teeth. Pointed and deadly.

“Do you contest the kill?”

Ellen doesn’t move. “No,” she replies.

A sigh ripples through the Je’jiri. The male lunges forward.

Beside Dean, Castiel gasps, a strangled sound, and collapses to his knees.

The man fights, at first. Some instinct for survival that humans have never lost but ranged against this inhuman lust for the kill it doesn’t avail him long.

The Je’jiri male sets claws into his face and chest and rips open the man’s throat with his teeth.

Blood pools out and drips in streams down the steps of the dais. The last rattling sigh of the dying man echoes across the bridge.

Ash swears under his breath.

Dean feels his knees sag as bile rises in his own intact throat. He puts a hand out to grip Cas’ shoulder, to steady himself, but he’s shaking, trembling and he’s thrown a hand up over his eyes as if it can protect him from what they’ve just seen.

Someone in the far reaches of the bridge is vomiting. The noise cut off as, escorted by two other figures, they flee out another door.

The Je’jiri male waits a count of ten and then sniffs, scenting for a smell now eradicated from the universe. He sets his hand, palm down, in the sticky puddle of blood and brings it up to his face, marking each cheek and his forehead and last his lips with red.

Then he stands and retreats, clothes stained brilliant wet scarlet and the others come forward, one by one and repeat the gesture. Hand, palm down, in blood and the precise, ritualistic marking of their faces.

The female is last. As she stands, all of them turn and look at Castiel until, because of their scrutiny, the attention of all the people left on the bridge is on him.

The female speaks directly to him. Alien words, but her meaning is clear. It’s also your obligation to mark the kill.

Castiel shudders, a tremor that passes through his entire body. He shakes away Dean’s hand on his shoulder and stands up.

Takes a step back.

“Abai’is-ssa,” hisses the female. As if he’s being pulled forward by a force as powerful as gravity, Castiel walks to her. Each step seems agonizing, torn out of his will to stay where he was.

Dean starts to move after him, but Ash grabs him by both arms and holds him back. “Don’t be a fool,” he mutters. “You can’t stop this.” His words carry the weight of a planet, that’s what stops Dean, not the hands on his arms that he could easily break away from.

Stiffly, Castiel crouches by the mutilated corpse. His hand shakes violently as he lowers it. Stopping a finger’s breadth above the pooling blood and then shutting his eyes, pressing it down. He marks his face, both cheeks, his forehead and last, his lips.

The female Je’jiri turns her feral gaze on Ellen, expectant.

Ellen hasn’t moved during the entire time. Her gaze rests dispassionately on the corpse. “I and my crew witness this kill, fulfilled under the specifications of the Gabriel Treaty and we now declare this course is finished.”

Like ghosts, the Je’jiri vanish into the elevator without a word or gesture of acknowledgment. The door closes behind them.

There’s silence on the bridge.

Castiel still kneels by the corpse.

“Ash,” Ellen says curtly and she looks pointedly at the corpse.

He lets go of Dean’s arms and signaling two other crew members, walks over to the corpse. He’s clearly come prepared. They bundled the body into white sheeting, sopping up the worst of the excess blood. Although a few deep stains and the acrid scent linger and carry the dead man off the bridge, vanishing like the Je’jiri into an elevator.

Dean watches it all with an intensity brought by the realization that once this act ends, he’ll have to react to what he’s just seen. Castiel still kneels on the steps, his face streaked with drying blood.

Ellen stands, Dean raises his eyes to look at her and meets Ellen’s eyes. They’re not devoid of pity. Perhaps she sees the storm rising in Dean’s expression, or perhaps she just knows enough of human nature, but she moves her hand slightly, no more than a twist of the wrist and the rest of the personnel clear off, leaving the three of them alone in the hushed cavern of the bridge.

“You have something you wish to tell me,” Ellen says.

“I can’t believe it.” Dean’s voice emerges hoarse and ragged. “You let them murder him. You let them just mutilate him as if he was no better than…” he shakes his head roughly. “No one, no _thing_ , deserves that. I thought the League was supposed to be civilized.”

Ellen steps carefully around Castiel’s motionless form and descends the steps to come stand a body’s length from Dean. “Do you tell the cat not to kill the mouse? The owl not to hunt at night? The eagle lives by killing rodents. The wolf drives down and butchers caribou. But unlike humankind, they only kill what they need. Je’jiri are not indiscriminate killers, as we humans are. They’re driven, they’re fueled by instincts we’ve long struggled to transcend or deny, but I, for one, respect the absolute predictability of their honor.”

“Honor!” Dean barks. “You call _that_ honor?”

Ellen smiles, but it’s the smile of grim truth, not of sympathy. “How many men and women have you killed, Singer’s son? And for what cause and whose honor? Can you say it’s for as compelling a reason as the iron law of Je’jiri mating. One mate, for life, no exceptions. It’s in their bones. In the very fabric of their being.”

She pauses, but Dean stares, silent, at Castiel’s frozen pose. Kneeling on the steps like he’s praying to a god who’s long since forgotten him.

“A linguist once told me,” Ellen continues, softer now, “that there’s no word for ‘love,’ or ‘adultery,’ in the Je’jiri language. Love is a human construct for fleeting ties. _Their_ bonds are burned into every cell of their bodies and adultery does not exist, except among the aberrant. If you sleep with a Je’jiri, their mate _must_ kill you. It’s as simple as that.”

“It’s horrifying,” he breaths, still seeing the clean ripping of the man’s throat.

“We live in a great, vast universe,” Ellen states calmly. “We must accommodate those to whom our ways seem equally alien and unspeakable.”

“Cas,” Dean murmurs, lifting his anguished gaze to the clear sanity of Ellen’s pale face. “Sweet Mother. He’s one of _them_. I thought he was human. No wonder he’s so—” But Dean can’t bring himself to identify what it is in words whose spoken permanence might mark him forever.

“No, Dean,” Ellen says with abrupt, but real compassion. “He’s indeed half Je’jiri, on his mother’s side. But that’s not the root of his particular crisis. Je’jiri are too prosaic to harbor insanity in their minds. It’s his humanity that curses him.”

“What do you mean? That murder, it was savage and that ritual of marking themselves with the blood. _That_ was the horrific part.”

“Oh, I agree, even though I may understand why it’s so. But I can look at it from a distance. I can intellectualize it, as we humans do so well. I can’t be forced by birth and instinct to partake in a deed the rest of me finds cruelly and bitterly repugnant.”

Dean shuts his eyes. The searing pain that shutters Cas’ face as he kneels unmoving is too terrible for him to look on. And he wonders what kind of death Cas’ father had died.

“There _was_ a message, I think,” Ellen asks coolly, changing the subject.

Dean’s throat is full of agony, but he manages to force out the words anyway. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to say this.” He opens his eyes, because it’d be cowardly to tell in any other way but face to face, seeing her. “Bobby’s dead.”

“Yes,” Ellen agrees, with no change in her expression. “Bobby Smith is dead. I came to Riven space to discover what had happened to him. We’ve just been to Arcadia, where I found out.” She pauses. Still, her expression doesn’t change.

Because Dean doesn’t know if Ellen will welcome sympathy, he finds refuge in an awkward question. “But how did you end up here, at Guildford?”

“Curiosity impelled me to follow the sudden flurry of military activity, but…” She dismisses the Riven’s political turmoil with a wave of her hand. “I see nothing here to interest me. The _Roadhouse_ will return to League space. Now. I think you will need a few moments alone with Angel before you return to your ship. Farewell, Dean Winchester.” She lifts a hand to cup Dean’s cheek, a benediction and turns and walks soundless across the expanse of floor, to an elevator.

“But,” Dean stammers, confused by her abrupt dismissal and by her complete lack of reaction to the news of Bobby’s death, “but you can’t just leave the bridge deserted.”

Ellen smiles. “The bridge is wherever I am.” Without further explanation, she disappears into the elevator.

Dean stands, feeling dwarfed and alone in the vast silence of this strange, almost alien, bridge.

Cas’ voice, soft, brushes against the quiet that hangs so heavily over him. “‘Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed, In one self-place; but where we are is hell, And where hell is, there must we ever be.’”

Dean takes fifteen deliberate steps forward and stops three steps from Cas. Where the blood has streaked his face most thinly, it’s already dried and beginning to flake off.

“I don’t know what to say to you.” Dean extends a hand toward him, tentative and withdraws it without touching him.

He doesn’t look up at Dean, but his voice is low, compelled by an inner pain Dean can’t even imagine. “Say you forgive me for murdering the man on Kansas Station.”

Dean feels dizzy, having forgotten to breathe and he kneels beside Cas. “I forgive you.” He puts his hands on his shoulders.

The urgency and force with which he embraces him catches Dean by surprise and the strength of his grip scares him. Until he realizes Cas is holding on to him like Dean is his anchor. Not so much for his life, but for his sanity.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations and reunions.
> 
> * * *

Cas doesn’t speak on the return trip to the _Endeavour_. He sits next to Dean, his eyes closed. The slight rise and fall of his chest and the barest shifting presence of his fingers brushing his leg are the only signs he’s alive.

When Doctor Jennings meets them at the shuttle bay with Jehane’s orders that they’re to return to quarantine, Cas agrees without protest. Jennings has taken careful precautions from the shuttle bay all the way to Medical and installs them swiftly and efficiently in a two-room suite somewhat larger than Dean’s original quarantine room.

As soon as they enter the suite, Cas lies down on a couch in the second room, turning his back to them, effectively leaving Dean alone with Jennings.

“He isn’t feeling well,” Dean says, feeling obliged to explain. “I don’t understand why, after my quarantine was broken so thoroughly by Kuan-yin, that you’re bothering with this.”

Jennings shrugs, watching Cas’ back with the measuring eye of a healer. “Jehane’s orders. What are his symptoms? Lethargy? He seems pale. I’d better take his readings. I don’t mean to alarm you, but I’ve finally gotten in the medical records from the _Royal Sovereign_ and he’s the only member of the entire crew who hasn’t yet come down with this mysterious plague. Evidently we have a new rash of cases on the _Minotaur_ and the _Bellerophon_ , the two ships which accompanied the _Royal Sovereign_ for past month.”

“Maybe he’s immune,” Dean suggests.

Jennings shakes his head. “Unlikely. So far we have one hundred percent contagion. Why would Comrade Seraphim be immune?”

“Why, indeed?” asks a new voice.

Dean turns to see Jehane, dressed for quarantine, enter from the other room. He hadn’t heard the other man coming in through the quarantine lock. Jehane waits, examining Dean, expectantly.

“I wouldn’t know,” he says smoothly. “I’m not a doctor.”

“No, you aren’t,” he agrees. His eyes move to investigate Cas’ still form. “Doctor Jennings, do you think Comrade Seraphim might be coming down with this illness?”

“I couldn’t say yet.” Jennings takes a step toward the couch, hesitantly. “I’ll need to take a blood sample. I haven’t had time to study the analysis of the illness’ course on the _Royal Sovereign_ in depth, although,” he presses his lips together with a brief tightening of disapproval, “I must say there are a few irregularities in the report.”

“Which was, I believe, compiled by Comrade Seraphim himself,” Jehane inserts neatly.

“Yes. For instance, he took no blood samples at the onset of the disease, only midway through and during recovery.”

“Which suggests?”

Jennings glances at Dean, then at the unreadable line of Cas’ back. “I couldn’t say. Poor procedural methods could account for it. Although the other medical records from the _Royal Sovereign_ all show a meticulous thoroughness in record keeping. Lack of time due to the sudden and virulent outbreak of cases? But again, battle casualties show no such lack of precise record keeping. He might’ve thought he knew what he was dealing with and then realized midway through that he didn’t.”

“In which case,” Jehane says softly, “wouldn’t he have changed his procedures with the later cases?”

“Well, yes…” Jennings shoots a worried look at Dean.

“Perhaps you ought to ask Comrade Seraphim directly,” Jehane suggests in a tone of utmost reason.

“He’s asleep,” Dean says sharply.

Jehane smiles, making Dean feel like he’s given something away. “I meant, of course, when he’s feeling better. Meanwhile, Doctor,” Jehane transfers his attention with effortless smoothness back to Jennings, “I wonder if you’ve dealt with all the inquiries on wounded that’ve come in from our fleet? Has a complete compilation of casualties been made?”

“No, Comrade, but it should be finished within six hours. I’ve two technicians at work on it now. There were twenty-eight casualties that I don’t have sufficient expertise to advise treatment for beyond what the medical teams on board their respective ships have already done, so I’m afraid they may not recover—”

Cas sits up. So smoothly and suddenly that both Dean and Jennings startle. Only Jehane doesn’t register any obvious change of expression.

“Let me see those files,” Cas asks harshly. The extreme pallor of his skin gives him a look of desperation, or desperate illness. “My specialty is triage and specifically combat injuries.”

Jennings is too startled to do more than look helplessly at Jehane for guidance.

For an instant Cas looks right at Dean. He’s so pale that Dean has a blinding flash of déja vu, seeing not Cas but one of his ghostlike cousins, hand immersed in blood. A tiny smudge of red decorates his cheek. A bit of blood he missed when he scrubbed his face with the white towel that Ash had offered as they’d boarded the shuttle for the trip back. Dean looks away, feeling sick with the memory.

“By all means,” Jehane says. The plastic quarantine sheath mutes his expression and his tone. “Doctor Jennings, if you can set up an interface in here?”

Jennings frowns. “I don’t like it. You look and act ill to me, Comrade.”

“I won’t leave this couch,” he promises. Even sitting, he has an edge of fine-honed exhaustion about him, like the couch lends him a force of will that alone in this instance sustains him. “It’ll give me something to do.”

“Well.” Jennings hesitates, then walks forward decisively. “Let me examine you and take some blood and then I’ll set you up.”

Under any other circumstance, Dean would’ve been amazed at the meekness with which Cas submitted to Jennings’ orders, or even to his plastic-sheathed and thus scentless touch. But now Dean is amazed he has the strength of mind to insist on what little he does demand. A task to immerse himself in, one that’ll keep him free of having to think.

“Very good, Doctor,” Jehane says. “Now, Comrade Smith, I’d like to speak with you in the other room. If I may.”

Dean allows himself a brief, exhausted smile as he reflects on Jehane’s habit of asking permission for things he knows he can demand. Allowing his followers to believe that they control far more of their own actions than they actually do.

Dean follows him into the other room and sits on the couch, wishing he could sleep. Jehane doesn’t sit, but turns to face Dean, his golden hair and brown uniform in rich contrast against the stark white expanse of wall behind him, even muted as they are under the quarantine sheath.

“We’ve routed Central’s fleet,” he starts in a matter-of-fact voice like he’s announcing dinner, “and I’ve given orders to advance on Arcadia. I expect to meet very little resistance there, except for the walled precincts of Central itself.”

“Because of Athena,” Dean says. “Dorothy’ll have Arcadia entirely committed to you. She was halfway to that goal when I left there.”

“Indeed,” Jehane agrees. “Athena’s been a tireless worker for our cause.”

For some reason the comment irritates Dean. “She’s the most honest person I know,” he says. “I hope you appreciate that.”

“Rest assured,” he murmurs, without a smile. “Meanwhile, Comrade, both of the unidentified vessels which caused us some alarm have left Guildford system.” He pauses.

Dean simply watches him, without speaking.

“You understand that I need to know what transpired on that ship.” Again he pauses.

This time Dean shuts his eyes, not wanting to remember, but the vision blooms unbidden in his mind’s eye. He opens his eyes quickly to the soothing monotony of white walls and Jehane’s ruthless face.

“And why both ships left so abruptly.”

Because they aren’t interested in you, or us, at all, Dean thinks, but he refrains from saying it aloud. “Because,” he says instead, “they finished what they came here for. Business,” he suppresses the image of Cas dipping his hand in blood, “that was purely between themselves.”

Jehane’s lack of reaction is so pronounced as to be a strong reaction in itself. A man like Jehane can’t like being dismissed so easily. “The ship you were on, where did she hail from?” he asks, cool now.

“You know where she’s from,” Dean answers flatly. “She’s not from the Riven. She’s from the League. As was the other ship.”

“As are you. As is your robot and Comrade Seraphim.”

“Where _is_ my robot?” Dean demands.

“In time.” Jehane pitches his voice to be soothing, but continues his questions nevertheless. “You were saying, Comrade?”

“I’m not from the League. I grew up—” He hesitates. Could he be sure that Campbell House would never be blamed for his actions, in some form or other? The thought changes what he was going to say. “I grew up in Riven space just as you did, Comrade Jehane. I just happen, like you, to have seen stranger things than most people have and been influenced by them.”

Jehane smiles, a surprisingly sweet expression. “Well spoken, Comrade Smith. Nevertheless. Say it’s true, about _your_ birth and upbringing. That still leaves us with the League. How does one get in touch with them?”

“I don’t know. Ellen Harvelle might, but she’s gone now and you’ll never catch her.” He sees the flash of annoyance flicker across Jehane’s face before he can control it and Dean knows it was the wrong thing to say.

“Then that leaves Comrade Seraphim, does it not?” he states calmly. “Convenient that he who was so well before visiting this Ellen Harvelle is now obviously suffering some illness. How did you escape from my people at Nevermore, Dean Winchester?”

He’d forgotten how much Jehane knows about him. Dean had let distance and time allow him to underestimate him. It seems to Dean now that he’s walking down a long, but finite, corridor in which all the doors are being shut one by one before him.

“I was traveling,” he says slowly, “with a man who’s now dead.”

“And the three representatives from the League? One of whom is, I shouldn’t have to remind you, our Comrade de Angelis.”

“Cas came with us. The other two—I don’t know. Perhaps they went back to League space.”

“And your brother Sam,” he adds like it’s an afterthought. “No I haven’t forgotten that Sam is your brother.”

They stare at each other for a long moment.

“Presupposing that the route the ghost ship called the _Royal Sovereign_ once haunted has now been rediscovered.”

Dean wipes one hand over his eyes.

“If _Harvelle’s Roadhouse_ and this other ship are now running the roads in Riven space, I suppose it must have been,” he answers for Dean, perhaps a little sarcastic, now.

Dean lowers his hand and regards Jehane with the cool carelessness of utter fatigue. “What are you afraid of?” he asks. “I’m not a navigator, but I think, I suspect, that a road so long lost or so difficult to run that it’s left and forgotten, is not so easily opened again. Does that satisfy you?”

“Comrade, you do me an injustice,” Jehane replies in his most persuasive voice. “This isn’t an interrogation. But if the safety of the Riven is at risk, then there’s no investigation I’ll not pursue to ensure peace and the restoration of a true and responsible government.”

“Guildford worked well for you. Did you know it would?”

He bows his head slightly, a gesture both endearing and modest. “I had faith. Now I’d better leave you to your well-deserved rest. Events press on, Comrade. I’ll not talk to you again until Arcadia is ours.” As he finishes speaking, he walks to the door.

“Comrade.” Dean stands up. “Why are we being held in quarantine?”

He smiles gently. “As long as the risk remains.” And leaves the room.

Dean reaches the door just as it closes behind Jehane. It’s locked, of course. A means to ensure quarantine. He lays a hand on it, feeling the unyielding metal cool his palms as he leans against it. Jehane has him trapped here just as neatly as he’d manipulated Dean into risking himself and his friends in the liberation of the Hexham 30s mine.

That Jehane no longer trusts him seems obvious. The question he has to consider now is whether Jehane has ever trusted him and whether Dean’s belief in Dorothy has caused him to be blinded to Jehane’s suspicions. But Dean can’t reconcile Athena’s belief in Alexander Jehane with his own misgivings about Jehane and knowing Dorothy as Dean does, he can only conclude that Dorothy knows something of Jehane that Dean doesn’t.

“I’ll be patient, Dorothy,” he murmurs to himself and steps back from the door.

“Did you want something?” Jennings asks, coming from the other room.

“No,” Dean replies hastily. “Nothing.”

Jennings smiles warmly and perhaps apologetically as he walks past Dean to the quarantine lock. The door opens to produce an exchange. Baby’s high, exuberant trill as she’s restored, at Jehane’s pleasure, Dean reminds himself bitterly. Jennings gives a slight, self conscious wave and vanishes as the door closes.

Which still leaves him trapped, Dean thinks as he turns to face the door that leads into the second room. He realizes that yet another door in that long, finite corridor has closed, shutting him in. Because Cas has trapped him just as neatly.

He sinks onto the couch, preferring for the moment to let Baby sing him to sleep than deal with the consequences of that realization.

But waking unknown hours later, nothing has changed. And after all, when in doubt, he’s always chosen action as his first resort.

He cleans up a little, because it helps clear his mind, plugs Baby into the terminal that graces the front room and ventures into the second.

“Cas.” He pauses in the arch that separates the two rooms.

The second room, in which Cas lies, is dim. Unlike the outer room, which looks directly out on the pristine counters of Medical, this tiny chamber has opaque walls, the only concession to privacy. The corner lighting has been muted until it’s more a suggestion than a glow. The only real light comes from the screen angled out over Cas’ reclining form. Dean knows he’s not asleep because now and then he lifts his right hand and taps a few keys, coding some message or instruction.

Alien. He’s not human, or not fully human. Yet he looks human to Dean, lying there, not like some fantastic and dreadful creature that hunts the Highroad on an inexorable path of vengeance. The idea of making love to that alien male who’d lunged for the man on Ellen’s bridge, had ripped his throat out, had scented the air when he entered, like an animal—like Cas did—horrifies him. The gesture, familiar then, was familiar because Dean had seen it before.

Except that, even knowing what he did, he simply looks like Cas to Dean. Like he’s known him too long to see him as anyone— _anything—_ else. He feels confused by his contradictory emotions, but above all else, he’s furious that Cas has trapped him so completely. Without ever telling him why he’d done it.

“Have you slept at all?” he asks harshly, finding that his anger confuses itself with concern for Cas’ wellbeing. Dean sits on the edge of the couch, resting his hand in Cas’ hair.

His breathing alters slightly in reaction to Dean’s proximity, but Dean now knows what his response really is. Cas’ taking in his scent. He doesn’t need to look at Dean to make contact. Dean recognizes finally that touch and smell and taste have always been Cas’ most vivid senses. Cas shifts his body just enough that his arm and chest settle into contact with Dean’s leg as he sits sideways beside Cas.

“Cas,” he starts again after it’s clear that he’s not going to answer Dean, at least not in words. “You knew all along what would happen if you slept with me.”

This time he waits him out. Information scrolls past on the screen until Dean lifts a hand to press pause.

“Yes.”

“You knew and you did it anyway.”

“Yes,” he repeats.

“Without asking if I’d had other lovers. Without explaining anything to me. Not a word about what such a—a partnership would mean. You forced me into a contract whose terms I was ignorant of. Terms I didn’t even know existed!”

“Yes.” Cas doesn’t move.

All of Dean’s breath comes out in an angry rush. “No wonder Master Smith was so furious! When I think—” He has to pause for a moment to let the full implications of just what it is that Cas has done to him sink in.

“Would you have slept with me, had you known?” Cas asks quietly.

“No! Of course not.”

“Well.” He flips off the ‘pause’ button and lets the information scroll across the screen again. “There you are.”

Dean reaches past him and flips the terminal off completely. “Just give me your attention for one damn minute,” he snaps. “It may be perfectly easy for you to dismiss this with a blithe ‘there you are,’ but it’s a far different question for me. I’d like to know just how you thought you had any right to subject me to your kind of—of partnership.”

Cas winces, reacting to the caustic tone of Dean’s voice on the word _partnership_ , but he doesn’t reply immediately. His fingers brush the controls of the terminal, but he doesn’t turn it on.

“Well?” Dean demands.

“I had no _right_ ,” he says softly. “The truth is—” he falters.

“The truth is?”

For the first time, Cas looks up at Dean. In the luminescent glow of the corner lights his skin seems pale but it’s a human pallor. “You aren’t going to like this.”

Dean laughs a strangled noise that’s more pain than humor. “You’ve said that to me before, but this time… Sit up damn it. How can I talk to you when you lie there like an invalid?”

He sits up obediently, the thin blanket that covers him rustling down around him with a whisper of sound.

“This time, you’ll tell me.”

Cas lifts a hand to brush the curve of Dean’s throat. “I was running,” he continues at last in a low voice. “Running from what the League did to me, locking me away. I was afraid they were trying to drive me,” he hesitates, “insane. By the time they allowed me to recant, I would’ve said anything to get out of that prison. When I saw you and Master Smith…” He trails off.

“Yes?” he asks, with more patience now, possibly because he’s remembering the first time Cas told him he was beautiful.

“I could tell there was a link between you. A bond, family. Then he told Ellen that you were his heir.”

“I remember,” Dean says, but he’s thinking of the locked room on Ellen’s ship where they’d first made love.

“Dean,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing Dean’s jawline. His gaze agonizingly somber. “I realized that if I slept with you, by linking myself to you, I’d automatically get Bobby’s protection.”

Dean hits him.

“You bastard!” he spits, jumping up.

Cas gasps, clutching his stomach. “Did you pull that punch?”

“Of course,” he says scornfully. “Not that you deserve it.”

Cas tries to laugh, but all he can manage through the gasping, short breaths occasioned by Dean’s blow is a kind of shuddering chuckle. “Dean, my heart.” He leans forward while Dean’s still surprised by his laughter and pulls him against him. “I love you.”

“You _what_?” he asks, standing very still.

He murmurs something into Dean’s clothing which Dean can’t understand.

“I once told Benny,” Dean mutters, exasperated, “that I was looking for someone unpredictable. I thought you were traumatized by what happened on Ellen’s bridge.”

He moves his head back to look up at Dean and frowns. “I am,” he says irritably. “It’s just occurred to me that this entire conversation has probably been taped for the edification of our friend Jehane. I can’t believe I let that slip—”

“Damn Jehane.” Dean finds himself inordinately pleased by the very humanness of Cas’ annoyance at himself and Dean uses the leverage of his standing to push him down onto the couch. “Anyway,” he adds, kissing Cas on the lips, “I told Baby to interrupt any recording devices.”

Cas smiles and traces the soft angle of his lips with one finger. “Dean,” he starts, then shakes his head and lets him kiss him again.

  


.oOo.

  


Jehane follows Central’s routed fleet to Arcadia. Dean watches their progress on the terminal in their quarantine suite, alternating time with Cas’ monitoring of the condition of the patients injured in the battle at Guildford. Of the forty-two worst cases—including the twenty-eight cases Cas originally took over—all but four survive, a statistic that leads Doctor Jennings to visit more frequently and at greater length than he ever had when Dean had been in quarantine alone.

When Cas, rather than falling ill, quickly recovers, Jennings gives up trying to make sense of his blood sample and instead enlists his aid in coordinating the reports on the plague itself. Dean doesn’t venture to intervene in this project, although he recognizes immediately that Cas has no intention of giving the game away.

The _Endeavour_ swings into orbit around Arcadia without any resistance. Whatever station garrisons have not already surrendered are taken by force by the advance assault teams. Cas spends more time relaying treatments to physicians on the other ships and convinces Jennings to send the worst casualties to the _Royal Sovereign_ , where a specific ward can be set up to treat them.

And one by one, across Arcadia’s great metropolis, the ward councils of each district repudiate Central’s rule and welcome Jehane, until the only place left that remains armed, garrisoned and defiant is Central itself, surrounded by the walls that have always separated it from the people it governs.

Jehane enters Medical, Kuan-yin trailing.

“Comrade Smith,” he says, while Doctor Jennings dismantles the quarantine and frees Dean and Cas from its confines. “I’d like you to accompany me downside.”

“Of course, Comrade.” He whistles to Baby.

“Comrade Seraphim will serve our cause best by transferring back to the clinic on the _Royal Sovereign_.”

Cas merely nods his head, not glancing at Dean, making no attempt to argue or be even mildly sarcastic.

“Well,” Jehane says. Dean wonders if he’s surprised at the meekness with which Cas receives his orders, but he’s only paused to look at his wrist-comm. “Let it be so.” He sweeps out of the room.

Kuan-yin pauses in the doorway to look at Dean, a glare replete with dark warnings. In the hall beyond, Comrade Trenton waits.

Dean turns as soon as Kuan-yin leaves, but Cas is sitting at Jennings’ main terminal and seems intent on his work, ignoring Dean.

Jennings walks over and offers Dean a little bag in which to stow his few possessions.

“So the quarantine’s off again?” Dean asks negligently.

Jennings shrugs, but he looks troubled. He glances toward the door to Medical, like he’s afraid one of Jehane’s lieutenants might be listening in. “It does seem a little abrupt,” he starts and then he turns away quickly, as if he’s said too much.

Dean moves to stand beside Cas. Although he doesn’t look up, Dean knows he’s followed his every movement around the room. Baby hovers an arm’s length above the terminal.

“Cas,” he starts, because this time Jehane’s separation of them seems like he’s determined to keep them divided for a period Dean can’t divine the end of.

Cas glances up. Although he smiles, Dean detects in it a warning to say no more. When he doesn’t, Cas gives him the briefest of winks and then turns back to his work. With a brief good bye to Jennings, Dean follows the trail of Jehane’s procession down to the shuttle bay. Comrade Trenton silently accompanies him.

Finding, to Dean’s astonishment, a familiar face waiting in docking.

“Dorothy!” he yells. She throws herself forward and hugs him enthusiastically.

Remembering the bridge of _Harvelle’s Roadhouse_ , Dean pushes her away.

“Dorothy.” He realizes he’s grinning like an idiot, partly out of the pure joy of seeing her and partly because she’s the perfect solution to his problem. If anything happens to Cas, Dorothy will see to it that the Miescher Formula gets out. All along, he’d known that she would be the most important person to tell. “But how did you get _here_?” he demands, flush with knowing that he can in this way put to rest his worries about Jehane.

She’s smiling, but with a gravity that reflects the seriousness of the situation. “I came to escort Jehane to his people. As is my part as his representative on Arcadia.”

“Dorothy,” Dean chuckles, “you haven’t changed at all. It’s so good to see you.”

“I knew it was right to send you to Jehane,” she replies, her voice resonant with the depth of her sincerity. “I knew you would prove valuable to his cause. But where is Sam?”

Dean can’t help but frown slightly. “He’s on a different ship.” He’s saved from having to say more by the entrance of Jehane himself.

He’s perfected the art of pausing at exactly the right moment to draw attention to himself without overtly seeming to seek it.

Dorothy’s face shines with the illumination of the converted as she looks upon Jehane, oblivious to the rest of the group clustered around the man. She takes two steps forward and thrust out her hand. “Comrade. I’m Athena. I’m honored to be the one chosen to escort you to our people.”

For the barest instant Jehane hesitates at this rather brash assumption of equality. Kuan-yin advances quickly to brush aside this impudence, but Jehane moves smoothly forward to circumvent her action and clasps Dorothy’s hand.

“Comrade Athena,” he says warmly. “The honor is mine. Shall we go?” He motions for Athena to precede him up the ramp into the shuttle and follows her like any humble acolyte.

Left behind, standing beside Dean, Kuan-yin scowls.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is surrounded by scorpions.
> 
> * * *

“But Dorothy,” Dean starts for the third time. “I don’t think you quite see.”

Dorothy shakes her head with the same conviction that informs all of her actions. “It’s exactly because I _do_ see Dean. I see the importance of telling Jehane about this miraculous discovery.”

Dean sighs, because it’s impossible to argue with Dorothy when she’s in one of her righteous moods. But the sigh also provokes a smile, because he could as easily have been having this conversation a year ago as now, so little have things changed with her.

He and Dorothy stand at the kitchen wall of her tiny apartment, washing dishes. Her way of living seems to have altered not at all, except that this apartment is in Kettering District instead of Malvern, closer to the walls of Central. A nameless benefactor provided it for her when she’d been forced by the closing net of Central Intelligence to move from her last residence some two months previous.

“ _I_ still don’t see,” Dean says in an attempt to change the subject, “why you didn’t attend Jehane’s council this afternoon.”

“I’ve done my part,” Dorothy says, taking the dish he hands her. “I’ve delivered Arcadia to Jehane with the least possible violence. Councils of war aren’t a place where I have any expertise.”

“But for all you did,” Dean insists. “I’d think you at least deserve a place there, whether or not you speak.”

Dorothy regards him solemnly. “Dean, I didn’t work all these years for some material reward that’ll prove as fleeting as the day is short in winter. I worked for the people.”

Dean laughs. “You’re the only person I know who can say that with such perfect sincerity that I believe it.”

She narrows her eyes. “Have you grown so cynical in such a short a time?” she asks, sounding pained. “I hadn’t thought to see that quality emerge in you.”

“Cynical?” He rests his elbows on the flat edge of the opaque plastic sink. “I hope I’m not cynical. That’s an ugly attitude. I like to think I’m sharp enough to tell the difference between someone who’s actually sincere and someone faking it to push their own agenda.”

“The ability to read the human heart without error is a talent that not even I can claim,” Dorothy tells him with the briefest of smiles.

“No,” Dean says. “I’m not sure anyone can.”

“In any case,” Dorothy continues, “I believe we weren’t talking about the human heart, but about this Formula that Castiel has discovered.”

Dean sighs again, realizing he can’t divert her attention so easily and yet, it is right that Dorothy be told. Behind them, Baby sits plugged into the apartment terminal, monitoring the various nets, official and unofficial, that’ve sprung up to accommodate the chaos on Arcadia. All transmissions into and out of Central have been blocked so thoroughly that not even Baby can access them.

“No,” he says. “He didn’t discover it. Remember he’s from the League—”

“Yes. It’s still difficult for me to believe that the League exists, or at least that we’re in contact with the home worlds at long last. But it seems also to me appropriate that Castiel’s gift—for it is a gift, a gift for all humanity, to the citizens of the Riven—springs out of the journey of a few intrepid explorers from the place that birthed us, come to find their lost children.”

“And stuck here when they couldn’t get back,” Dean murmurs, but replies in a normal tone, “What I’m trying to explain, Dorothy, and why I’m telling _you_ , is that we have to make sure that _everyone_ gets this gift. Not that it’s reserved for a privileged few, like the old drugs that only rich people like the Sars, or the Senators, can afford.”

“There.” Dorothy lifts a hand as any orator does when the point returns to their favor. “As you say. The Miescher Formula will be the crowning glory of Jehane’s triumph. _He_ can see that it’s disseminated to all the people, even to the meekest, the poorest and the most insignificant.”

“Even to the Ridanis?” Dean asks caustically.

“Of course to the Ridanis.”

“Even with the terrible prejudice there is against them?”

“But not in Jehane’s forces. He has decreed it so.”

“Decreeing it so doesn’t make it so. You know that.”

“Yes, but the example must begin somewhere. Then, like throwing a stone into a pond, the ripples begin to spread out until they have thrown waves up on every shore.”

“Dorothy,” Dean says, exasperated, as he hands her the last dish. “Remind me not to argue with you. You’re impossible.”

“Then you see the necessity of informing Jehane?”

“No, I don’t.” He considers. “Not yet. Let me talk to Cas first.”

“Dean.” She’s stern, now. “This Formula isn’t some possession you own, to dispense at your will.”

He takes his hands out of the water and turns to face her. “Would you tell Jehane even if I ask you not to?”

She bows her head, raises it to gaze at him with the fierce honesty that invests her entire being. “Yes. This is too important.”

“I’ll see if I can reach Cas now.” He dries his hands off and walks across to stand behind Baby. “The council won’t be out for a few hours, I hope,” he adds to himself before whistling for Baby to get a channel to the _Royal Sovereign_ with all haste.

All haste still takes more than half an hour, as it involves several illicit relays patched through planet-wide nets and at least two satellites out to the perihelion orbit beyond Arcadia’s moon in which the _Royal Sovereign_ and several smaller ships circle the planet. Most of the rest of the fleet, minus their ground mercenaries, have been sent out to patrol the outer system and the web of shifting windows that give access to the rest of Riven space beyond.

Benny’s on comm.

“No,” he says, his replies delayed by the distance. “Our mercenary tens have not been transferred downside. We’re the only ship that didn’t have ours sent. But we’re on a skeleton crew in any case, so it isn’t a strong complement. Why? Is the assault beginning?”

“Benny.” He rests a hand on Baby’s cool surface as he speaks into the terminal. “Please recall that despite the blocking, Central may be able to monitor this.”

“Oh.” A longer than usual pause. “I’ve got the comm linked through to Medical. Do you want to go ahead?”

“Just one question, Benny.” He hesitates and glances back at Dorothy, but she’s cleaning up the rest of the counter. “Have you, and I mean you, personally, had any problem since Cas was returned?”

This time the pause is so long that Dean thinks the connection’s been cut. Finally Benny’s voice crackles back over the terminal. “Dean. I swear to you that that man is… Maybe he’s not insane, but he’s not normal. If you mean, has he tried to attack me, no, he hasn’t. But every time he comes into the same room I’m in, he insists on coming over and,” even though disembodied and strung out across uncounted hundreds of kilometers of atmosphere and empty space, the slight shake in Benny’s voice is discernable, “and putting a hand on me, touching me, like he’s proving something to me, or to himself. I don’t know. It’s _weird_. I’m doing my best to avoid him.”

Dean hadn’t realized that he’s holding his breath. He lets it out now. “Thank you, Benny,” he answers, aware that his voice also shakes slightly as he speaks. “Thank you for… forgiving him.”

“Oh, certainly not.” Distance mutes the sarcasm, a quality, Dean notes bitterly, that Benny hadn’t possessed those years ago on Kansas. “Consider it my pleasure. I’ll put you through to Medical now.”

There’s no identifiable shift as Cas’ voice supersedes Benny’s. The change comes so abruptly that for a startling instant Dean thinks Benny’s voice has suddenly been altered by some trick of comm.

“Dean? Is there a problem? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Cas. But I need to talk to you about the Formula.”

“Is this line secure? Is it being monitored?”

“Cas. I told Dorothy.”

A break in sequence as Cas takes in this information. Dorothy walks out of the small common room into the tinier sleeping chamber and shuts the door discreetly behind her.

“Dean.”

Another break. Dean can’t tell from the single word whether he’s furious, exasperated, or thrilled.

“Well, Dean. This limits our choices, I think.” The tone reminds him fleetingly of Master Smith. “I suppose she wants to tell Jehane.”

“Of course. But considering where you and I are now, I thought it best to bring one more person in on the facts.”

“Yes.” Static spits and hums as he considers. “I wish I’d gotten the opportunity to speak privately with you, under circumstances in which I could speak.” A pause while they consider the last circumstances under which they’d been truly private.

“You’ve had a plan all along,” he says, scattering the static.

“Yes.” Another break. “We’ll have to act fast. It’s time to bring in accomplices up here. We’ve no choice. I don’t trust many people, Dean.” He lets the comment hang, without finishing the thought.

“Sometimes you have no alternative.”

“Damn,” he says, but Dean thinks there’s a smile in his tone. “I might even be surprised by their trustworthiness. When is Jehane’s council?”

“It’s going on now.”

“Why aren’t you there?”

“I wasn’t invited. Dorothy wouldn’t go.”

“Dean, my heart, we must really act fast, if you weren’t invited. I’m going to send Pinto down with a shipment and some instructions. Where can you meet him?”

He whistles. _Baby, where’s the nearest port?_ Watches as Baby pulls up a zoning map on the screen and flashes a location. “Exeter Port.”

Static crackles through the quiet stillness of the apartment as Cas does calculations on his end of the transmission. “Meet him there in seven hours. Give me a berth number.”

“Hold on.” He whistles and waits while Baby scrolls through Port records. “Berth One five two.” Behind, Dorothy walks back into the room. “I’m signing off, Cas. Acknowledge.”

“Be cautious, my heart,” he replies. “Accepted.”

The connection dissolves with a flare of static that dissolves in turn to the soft hum of the terminal. Baby sets to work eradicating all evidence of the transmission.

Dorothy has put on her overcoat. “I’m going to the council. Do you want to come with me? In good conscience I cannot keep this news from Jehane any longer. I’m sorry if that pains you.” She regards him seriously, intent on his feelings and yet, he sees, always ready to disregard the individual for the sake of the whole.

“Dorothy.” He shakes his head, unable to fault her for the philosophy that drives her entire being. “I may argue with your choice, but I can’t fault your nobility of purpose. I want the Miescher Formula to be distributed to everyone. You know that. But the fact is, I don’t trust Jehane to see that it’s done.” And waits, because he hadn’t wanted to say it.

Dorothy blinks, uncomprehending, at him. “I don’t understand you.”

“That’s why you’re Athena,” he replies, feeling that now that he’s set the machine in motion, the inevitable will come. “And yes, of course, I’ll come with you.”

  


.oOo.

  


Jehane’s people have taken over one of the underground rail hubs as their headquarters. Even with identification, Dean and Dorothy have to pass through two security checkpoints. At the second one, Dean is relieved of his pistol before a small woman in Jehanish whites ushers them into an empty suite of offices outside the concourse that’d been set up to serve as the council of war.

Through two sets of open doors they hear the chaotic murmur of many voices. Dean edges forward to look but, as if in response to his presence, Kuan-yin appears in the far doorway like a fierce warden and levels her intense and challenging gaze on him. A moment later movement flutters behind Kuan-yin. Several soldiers flood the corridor, driving Kuan-yin before them until she comes out into the suite and stares at Dean and Dorothy as she takes up a position at the far door.

Two people Dean doesn’t recognize enter, followed by two fleet mercenary captains he knows by sight, and Jehane. The small woman who’d ushered Dean and Dorothy into the suite speaks in a low voice to Jehane as he stops.

He acknowledges Dean with a brief nod, but his attention focuses on Dorothy.

Athena walks forward and with her usual neglect of ceremony she addresses Jehane without any formality but a brief shake of hands.

“Comrade. I have great news.” Pitched to suit the small chamber, Dorothy’s clear voice fills it to the corners and ceiling without seeming strained or overloud. “A gift of incalculable value for the citizens of the Riven, one that, hand in hand with your restoration of a government for all people, will crown the glory of your triumph.”

Dean slowly edges backward, effacing himself, until he stands against one wall, as unobtrusive as possible.

“Comrade Athena.” Jehane glances briefly at his wrist-comm, but without seeming impatient and glances up once to check Kuan-yin’s position. “I’m sorry that you didn’t choose to be present at this council. You know how highly I value you and how important your work has been, but I wonder if the council wouldn’t have been a better platform for your news. We’ve made our decision and now have little time in which to implement our plans.”

Dorothy smiles humbly. “Comrade, I would never have interrupted you had I not thought the cause urgent. In any case, I only learned of it an hour since. Have you ever heard of the Miescher Formula?”

The effect of these words on Jehane is electric. Although he doesn’t look at him, Dean feels the full force of Jehane’s awareness center on him for a brief and uncomfortable moment that makes him question seriously for the first time the wisdom of telling Dorothy about the Formula. But to his astonishment, Jehane’s answer, when it comes, is delivered in the mildest of tones.

“I have heard the term, yes, but I know neither its origin nor its meaning.”

Dorothy’s face betrays the simple pleasure she feels in being the bearer of such momentous tidings. She hesitates only long enough to glance at Dean, as if to offer him the privilege, but he shakes his head, a minute gesture in keeping with his effacement, and she goes on.

“The Miescher Formula, Comrade, Comrades, is a life-extension serum developed and perfected in the home worlds. It’s a simple draught administered to each individual and with the slightest of side effects. About two to three weeks of flulike symptoms. It effectively alters human,” she shakes her head, “I’m no physician or geneticist, Comrades, to describe the physiological workings of such a treatment, but the end result is humans can expect to live upward of one hundred and eighty years.”

In the silence created by this speech, the echo of a distant train lumbering through some subterranean passage can be heard, the deep core of human interchange bound for further destinations.

Jehane stands poised as if on the edge of a precipice, but it’s a man Dean doesn’t recognize who speaks first.

“We haven’t had reason to disbelieve you before, Comrade Athena, but even if such a formula exists, we’ve long since been abandoned by the old worlds and the ways back have long been lost. So how are we to benefit from this now?”

“Because some people from the old worlds have gotten through to Riven space. Just a few, mind you,” she adds quickly, seeing the stir that this additional revelation causes in her audience, all excepting Jehane, of course. “Not any wholesale migration and more by accident than design, I suppose. But one of them has the Formula and has begun to manufacture it. Here. In Riven space.”

Several people start to speak at once. Jehane lifts a hand and silence descends again.

“Comrade Athena.” His voice is soft. “What are you suggesting?”

For the first time, Dorothy looks taken back, but she recovers quickly. “According to this physician, the Formula is easily manufactured except for the minute components of its base. The base is what he’s been making, with a view toward distributing it to the entire population. Comrade, as soon as Central has surrendered, which they’ll inevitably do, you can announce this great boon at the same time you announce the restoration.”

Jehane shakes his head slightly, like he’s saddened by some thought that only he can comprehend. “My dear Dorothy. Only consider. There will be riots if such news gets out. First we must consolidate our government. Then manufacture this Formula. Then we must develop a system of dissemination and work out the mechanics of the administration of its distribution.”

“But I didn’t explain,” Dorothy continues, breaking into Jehane’s cool recitation of these difficulties. “The beauty of the Formula is that once the base is widely available, any dispensary can blend the correct ingredients. Any clinic, even those in the poorest neighborhoods. It needs no centralized distribution. It truly can be available to all.”

Jehane sighs. “And what of people who manufacture it incorrectly? Who hoard it and sell it at increased prices? Poor clinics may not have the facilities. Such a valuable,” he hesitates, “such a gift must be controlled from a central source that will assure that it will be doled out fairly and judiciously.”

“No,” Dorothy says.

The force of that simple word permeating the room gives Dean a sudden shudder of fear. Kuan-yin takes a step forward, but some infinitesimal movement by Jehane stops her from coming any closer.

“No,” Dorothy repeats. “I appreciate the difficulties inherent in distributing something that people so desperately want. That’s exactly the reason that the information must be made available to every person, over the net, broadcast, sent to every terminal, every clinic, available to be bought in every store. Surely you of all people, Comrade Jehane, understand that this Formula must never become a privilege, restricted to those who can pay enough, or who line up for rewards. The Miescher Formula is a right, one each and every citizen of the Riven possesses and I’ll do everything in my power to see that the knowledge of it and the base that’s needed for manufacture, is disseminated through every means _I_ have at my disposal.”

Jehane smiles, looking a little tired. “Of course you are right, Comrade Athena. Your argument has convinced me.”

But Dean notes that his eyes take careful stock of each person who stands in the room, or near enough to have heard Dorothy’s news. He eases himself two unobtrusive steps along the wall toward the door, but Jehane’s soldiers stand as intent as ever, if not more so, now at their posts.

“But first,” Jehane continues to Dorothy, “before we send you off to begin your task, perhaps you’ll accompany us to Central.”

Dorothy bows her head in acknowledgment of the honor accorded her by this offer. “I have no talent for such methods of war, Comrade, or I would gladly accompany you. I ask that you excuse me.”

“Ah, but there ought to be very little fighting. I long since determined that the cost in lives of our soldiers to storm the walls of Central would be prohibitive. Violence is not always the most expedient solution.”

“Then?”

“A traitor, Comrade. A man who knows when the time is right to shift allegiance.” Jehane glances at the doors that lead into the concourse. “Where is our new colleague?” he asks. “He’s supposed to be with us now.”

“He’s coming now, Comrade,” replies one of the soldiers.

There’s a rustle of movement and a slight reordering of positions, as two new people enter the room. Dean recognizes the tall, white-haired man immediately. Pinto’s father, Senator Alastair.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The waters are in motion.
> 
> * * *

Alastair doesn’t recognize him. That becomes apparent when the Senator, looking carefully around the room, doesn’t give Dean a second’s glance, dismissing him as unimportant. At Dorothy he pauses, but then dismisses her as well and walks forward to stand beside Jehane.

“We’d best go,” he says to Jehane, sounding both impatient and surprisingly—to Dean—respectful. “The override program I installed in Central’s main computer won’t wait and we have to strike as soon as it goes into action.”

Jehane nods at Kuan-yin to precede the party out of the room.

“Then it is true,” Alastair continues in the pause while Kuan-yin reorders the soldiers to provide what she considers adequate security. “That you personally led the breakout on Guildford against two centuries of Immortals and made it out alive.” The awe in his voice gives Dean a sudden understanding of the obvious respect with which he treats Jehane, not a politician’s respect, but that of one man of action and power to another.

“I was not alone,” Jehane says. He checks his wrist-comm. “You’re right, Senator. We have very little time.”

“We’re ready,” Kuan-yin says, consulting Comrade Trenton, who’s just appeared from the corridor. “A number of vehicles are leaving this area now. Our truck’s waiting to take us to the tac center.”

Senator Alastair seems about to ask a question, but Jehane efficiently sweeps him out of the room, leaving the rest of his retinue to follow behind. Dorothy doesn’t even pause, following the two Arcadians Dean doesn’t know. The two commanders hurry after them, but Dean hangs back. Dorothy’s decision he can no longer influence. Now he needs to meet Pinto and put into motion whatever plan Castiel has devised. It’d be easy enough to fall behind, to slip off undetected.

“Comrade.” Comrade Trenton, flanked by four soldiers, stops behind him. “We’ve orders to ensure everyone here goes on to headquarters.”

Dean eyes him speculatively, but he has too much backup, he’s too aware and too well armed. All the doors but one in that long corridor has now closed before him. He follows Jehane’s party.

The truck they travel in has the exterior of a common cargo van, but inside it’s been redesigned to carry passengers in comfortable padded benches. Dean sits in silence in the back row, Trenton on one side, a soldier on the other and listens to the quiet flow of conversation from the seats in front. Several conversations intertwine, eddying around Jehane’s silence. The Miescher Formula. Jehane’s single-handed routing of the Immortals on Guildford. The disposition of Jehane’s forces surrounding Central, poised at every gate in the huge wall that’ll soon be opening, unbeknown to those besieged inside, at the command of one of their own, turned traitor. How Jehane had to be talked out of leading the first assault himself.

Dorothy sits with a distant, intent look on her face that betrays to Dean that she’s thinking very hard about something or, perhaps, planning a speech. Jehane sits perfectly still, face impassive, in the way that only honed fighters perfect. Conserving their energy. Now and then he shifts his gaze, examining his retinue.

Without realizing it, Dean discovers Jehane looking directly at him and him at Jehane. An instant where he’s perhaps as unguarded as Dean and the kind of communication that’s always wordless and the more profound for it, passes between them.

Jehane doesn’t trust him. Dean knows it from his gaze. Feels it. But more than that, worse by far, he has a deep glimpse of what his instincts have felt all along. Alexander Jehane is a genuinely dangerous man. Not because he doesn’t believe in the revolution, but because he believes he is the only person fit to lead it.

Dean’s trust in Dorothy had blinded him. Dorothy’s idealism placed a rose colored filter over his eyes. Of course it’d been right to tell Dorothy about the Miescher Formula, but by doing so and by coming along with her when she’d made her inevitable and Dean sees now, misguided choice to tell Jehane, he’s forced Jehane’s hand.

Jehane smiles at him, softly mesmerizing and Dean knows without a doubt that he doesn’t intend to let Dean or Dorothy out of his zone of control until things have fallen out as he wishes them to. All the doors are shut now. Cas and whatever allies he chooses to trust on the _Royal Sovereign_ are alone, because Dean’s always acted before he’s really investigated his gut feelings.

He wrenches his gaze away from Jehane’s hypnotic one and doesn’t look up again for the rest of the ride.

Headquarters prove to be one of Arcadia’s large net centers and broadcast headquarters for several image and sound nets. From the outside, little distinguishes it from the rest of the buildings surrounding it, but inside, the security measures are both obvious and brutal. Everyone but Jehane and Kuan-yin is searched twice. Dean’s even relieved of his comm-screen. The soldiers under Kuan-yin’s command enter fully armed.

Again when he lags behind as the others sweep into the elevator, Trenton prods him forward, not very gently. He’s enjoying himself.

They walk out of the elevator into another security checkpoint and then down a long corridor studded with white-clad soldiers at every branching and doorway. Eventually they come to a huge room filled with screens, consoles and banks of computers that all serve to coordinate the flood of information, images and transmissions that intersect in this chamber.

Dean walks up beside Dorothy as they enter and pauses, taking in the melding of images, sound and the quiet intensity of the people staffing the consoles.

“Perfect,” Dorothy speaks in a strangely normal voice. “I’ll get to work right away encoding and positioning the message about the Miescher Formula so that it can be broadcast as soon as Central has surrendered. I’ll need additional information from you, Dean.”

Dean glances to either side, aware that although Jehane’s gone forward to greet the staff, Trenton stands less than four paces from them. The soldier glances across at Kuan-yin, who’s followed Jehane. Her gaze is fixed on Dorothy.

“Dorothy,” Dean says slowly. “I don’t have any more information.”

She glances at him, clearly puzzled by his tone of voice and then looks straight at Trenton. “Comrade.” Her look, as always, is open and direct. “Perhaps you can ask your commander to introduce me to whichever of your staff here can assign me a free terminal.”

“What for?” Trenton asks rudely.

If his bullying tone startles Dorothy, she doesn’t show it. Jehane is circling around the room quickly and returns efficiently to their side. “To encode and position a message about the Formula,” Dorothy answers, leaving the ‘of course’ unsaid but clearly understood.

“Of course,” Jehane cuts in smoothly as he walks up to them, like he’s echoing Dorothy’s unspoken words. “Comrade.” He looks at the green-clad civilian beside him. “Comrade Athena needs a console. Do we have one free?”

“Yes, Comrade Jehane. Certainly.” The man bobs his head enthusiastically. “This way, Comrade Athena. I’ve heard your speeches many times and my own cousin was swayed by your ‘waters shall not rise’ speech last summer when before he’d nothing but scorn for the movement and the ‘I see this system’ speech, too, I recall with great pride, although perhaps,” his voice lowers a note in respectful sorrow, “those were your predecessor’s words.”

“Yes,” Dorothy answers simply. “They were.”

Both Jehane and Kuan-yin watch as the green-clad man leads Dorothy away. Dean tries to drift unobtrusively away, to escape into the maze of consoles that litters the floor of the chamber, but Trenton continues to trail him at a distance. He roams slowly through the activity, marking the three exits from the room, each heavily guarded, watching Kuan-yin’s brisk circuit of all the soldiers stationed at doors and on the balcony that leads to a plexiglass booth overhead. Jehane stops beside the large central console and speaks with the nervous-looking Senator Alastair and the two mercenary commanders.

Across the array of screens, Dean sees images of units massing for the strike, or static screening whatever exists inside Central’s walls. Many people speak in the room, collating or processing the deluge of knowledge and communications that collect in this chamber, but overall it comes to him as a hushed buzz, anticipatory and controlled, not frantic.

Dean strolls back to stand behind Dorothy. At first, consumed in her work, she doesn’t notice him, but eventually she pauses and glances up at Dean questioning. Trenton’s stationed himself about eight paces away.

“Dorothy,” he says in an undertone. “Do me a favor. Let Baby know where we are. But don’t do it overtly. Just let a few of the old codes we used to use to run the underground nets creep in. Baby’ll trace us.”

“Dean,” she starts and stops, glancing first at Trenton and then up.

Looking up, he sees that Kuan-yin has ascended the stairs to the balcony and now stands staring directly down at them. “Just do it, Dorothy,” Dean says quietly. “While you’re at it, see that Baby gets a complete transcript of whatever it is you’re writing and set the transmission codes to activate automatically at a preset time as soon as you’re finished.”

“You’re wrong, Dean,” she tells him. “But I’ll do as you ask because I’ve too much respect for you to refuse you.”

“I hope I am too,” he murmurs and he touches her shoulder, a brief contact. He eases away from her and repeats his circuit of the room. This time as he walks toward each door he’s neatly circumvented by Trenton before he can reach the exit. Not threatening really, but he’s clearly relishing this game. He finally tells Dean that he’s received orders to let no one enter or leave until the operation’s over. Kuan-yin no longer stands on the balcony. One possible, final exit. Dean turns away from Trenton and climbs the stairs. This time, to Dean’s surprise, Trenton doesn’t follow.

The control booth at the top of the stairs holds five large consoles and five technicians, each strapped into a chair much like Pinto strapped into his pilot’s seat. They’re too intent on whatever processing they’re involved in to be aware of him. He walks past them and finds, around a corner, another door. It’s unguarded and it opens to his touch.

He walks out into twilight.

The sun sets over a rippling flow of land that trembles under each lance of light. Wind tugs at his clothes. He stands on a balcony, wrist thick metal rods fencing in a rectangle of some three meters wide and twenty long. The building rises about twenty meters above him, sheer and pocked with light-reflecting windows that give back the sun’s red glow and at least twenty meters below, he estimates, running into a barren sheet of land that extends to the horizon where the sun melts down into it, seeming to dissolve in its undulations.

Immediately he knows—get Dorothy, get some kind of rope, divert Trenton and they can escape.

Then he walks to the waist high fence and grips it with both hands, staring down.

It’s not land. It’s water.

He tightens his grip on the balustrade and fights a searing swell of dizziness. Waves shatter and dissolve against the walls of the building below him. The building itself thrusts out far into this sea.

For that’s what it is. He’d thought the pond in Malvern District Park immense. He recalls the vast, terrifying depths of the irrigation lake that he, Sam, Master Smith and Cas had entered into, a foreign, dark substance.

From space, one sees the unimaginably vast stretches of blue surrounding the lands of Arcadia. This is the ocean and it surrounds him now on three sides.

What need for the white-clad soldiers who guard the other doors now? What need for Comrade Trenton?

Sun ripples on water. Endless kilometers of it stretch out before him, an infinite expanse of depthless sea. Awe and dread poise like equally matched opponents on the edge of his thoughts.

He unfastens his hands from the railing and walks to one end of the balcony. The building stretches out on either side, at least twenty meters, if not more and only far away can he see the dark, solid bulk of land, lapped by the white foam of water spilling onto the shore.

“Where’s my son?”

The quiet voice surprises him. He turns, cursing himself for letting anyone come so close without his knowing. Whatever he meant to say died on his lips.

Senator Alastair faces him. The last rays of the sun bleach his hair and skin so that he looks quite old. His hands tremble as he sets them with deliberate effort on the railing.

“Where’s my son?” he repeats. “Or is he dead?”

“I didn’t think you recognized me,” Dean comments.

He shakes his head, still imperious and impatient although he’s so recently betrayed everything that was his. “Jonathan—”

“He’s alive. He’s a pilot in Jehane’s fleet. He’s found friends, or at least people who think of him as a friend when he’s willing to let them.”

Alastair’s hand steadies on the railing. “He’s alive. Does he still owe you his life?”

“Owe me his life?”

“The Ridani debt of honor. Kinnas. He told me when—when I last saw him. I’m sure you remember it.” His voice cracks with bitterness. “He never would accept that his mother marked him irreversibly. I tried to stop her, but those damned tattoos are fanatic about their markings. Once he understood that he couldn’t be my legitimate child he threw it in my face. Forced me at every opportunity to confront that fact publicly. What was I to do?”

“Are you asking me for absolution?” Dean asks quietly.

“No. I neither want nor would accept anyone’s pardon. But if he’s still bound to you, by that debt, I ask that you take care of him.”

The sun melts at last into the sea. Stars begin to show one by one in the dark dome above. In the distance, light flashes on the black ridge of land and a moment later they hear an explosion, echoed by more distant ones.

“It’s started,” Alastair states. “Central’s falling.” He turns and walks back into the building, his step as soundless on the smooth surface of the balcony as the passing of the mantle of power from his shoulders to Jehane’s.

Dean stands alone on the balcony and watches the distant play of light and sound. Stars bloom above him, each appearing brighter than the last as dusk turns to night. On the horizon, where the last dim remains of the sun’s light edges the far line of the sea, a single blazing star comes to life like an echo of the fire and explosion illuminating the land. The wind brings the muted sounds of the assault to him and occasionally, as it shifts, strips them away.

He feels a peculiar detachment, gazing at this tumult that touches him so deeply and yet doesn’t touch him at all. The storms of Kansas can never be experienced abstractly. Every action on Kansas stems from an awareness of their danger. Each foray into the outside springs only from dire necessity or a reckless urge for adventure.

If Jehane hadn’t decided, years ago, to foment his revolution, would the natural course of events have driven Dean to this ocean, this shore, anyway? Or is this his storm, artificially constructed and set into action by his desires and his hand?

Movement at the door. He shrinks back into the furthest corner, back pressed against the cold railing.

“—that Formula is too valuable to us to waste by letting it be uselessly dispersed to every worthless smuggler and poor, ignorant Ridani when instead it could be a tool. An invaluable tool.” He pauses. Because it’s Jehane, the pause itself is redolent with unspoken communication. “But I know of no way to convince Comrade Baum of this, while she prepares even as we speak to broadcast this discovery to the entire Riven.”

“I do,” Kuan-yin answers.

“Do you,” replies Jehane without any intonation at all.

Kuan-yin turns and leaves the balcony. Dean holds his breath. He can see Jehane’s outline silhouette against the lighter backdrop of sea and sky, his golden hair a pale reflection of the lost sun. He moves along the balcony, face turned to the ocean. Dean wonders if Whitechapel, the planet Mendi Mun had grown up on, has oceans as broad as these and if it’s such oceans he’s remembering now in his seemingly aimless stroll down the length of the railing.

Except that he’s Mendi Mun no longer. He shifts and with the decisive bolt of a trained fighter obliterates the distance between him and the corner in which Dean stands.

For an instant, Dean thinks about breaking for free ground. But there’s no free ground here and in that instant of hesitation Jehane has him.

With both arms pulled uncomfortably up behind him, Dean can’t move without giving Jehane greater purchase to hurt him. He holds Dean as close as any lover might, his face a hand’s breadth away. So close that his body presses the medallion, the one Master Smith had given him, along with the grotesque head from Sam into the skin below his throat.

He’d lost his breath when Jehane had grabbed him. Now Dean struggles to calm himself, to center and relax. But even as he relaxes, Jehane keeps his grip perfectly balanced to counter any move, any break, Dean might make.

“Never let an Immortal get the jump on you,” Dean says, not a little disgusted with himself.

Jehane smiles. “Now. Give me the Miescher Formula.” His voice is soft as a caress.

“I don’t know it.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Not good enough, Dean Winchester. I know where to get it. I’ve already put in a call to the _Royal Sovereign_ , ordering Captain Framingham to use his contingent of marines to keep order on his ship and to detain both Comrade Seraphim and Comrade Wesson under absolute top security. Well?”

Dean sighs. Even the breath seems like something he shares with Jehane, they stand so close, so intimately intertwined in this dance. “I ought to sleep with you,” he says finally, because he can’t help but wonder what it might be like, caught under the ardent intensity of his gaze. “It’d serve you right. I really don’t have the Formula and I don’t know what its components are. I don’t understand why you aren’t going to do as Dorothy said. Give it to everyone. Now. Unless you really are planning to use it to buy people’s loyalty and to reward their service. But that’d make you no better than—”

He gasps as Jehane tightens his grip on Dean’s arms. “No, you don’t understand. Sometimes difficult choices have to be made in order to bring about necessary changes.”

“Duty exacts a harsh price,” he mutters, echoing his words to Jody all those weeks ago.

“Yes. Believe me, I’d far rather give the Formula to all, but it’s naive to think that such a radical change won’t alter every facet, the entire fabric, of our society—”

But Dean thinks he’s beginning to understand, finally and far too late. “I thought that’s what this entire revolution was supposed to be about.”

Dean examines him, like a lover studies his beloved. The beauty of his face is not, Dean sees now, so much in the perfection of its features as in the single-minded desire he has focused and honed to such a fine point that it now engulfs his entire being. Woe betide, Dean thinks, whatever or whoever comes between Jehane and his goal.

“Change takes time,” Jehane murmurs. “It can’t be hurried.” He stops, shifting his head slightly as three figures come out on the balcony, bringing with them a brilliant stream of light through the door from inside. Dean recognizes them immediately. Dorothy, with Kuan-yin and Trenton two steps behind her.

Dorothy, who’d not have come here if Dean hadn’t told her about the Miescher Formula.

“—and it’ll give all people the chance,” Dorothy’s saying as she walks out and lays her hands on the railing, lifting her head to take in the cool of the air and the dark blanket of stars above, “to sit back at some point and simply be with the world and the stars and see their beauty as an end in itself—”

Kuan-yin, still behind her, reaches for the pistol at her waist.

If Dean hadn’t told her.

“Dorothy!” Dean screams.

He wrenches himself free for an instant from Jehane’s grip.

Dorothy turns her head, surprised, at his voice. The open lines of her face gleam briefly in the last light of the closing door.

Jehane tackles him. They fall to the ground, grappling. Dean arches his back to throw him off and watches in that split second as Kuan-yin grabs Dorothy by the shoulder and shoots her in the back of the head.

Jehane slams Dean’s head against the floor of the balcony. He lies, stunned but still conscious, staring as Kuan-yin steps back and Trenton hoists Dorothy’s legs, tipping her over the railing.

Dean hears his own breathing like a storm raging around him. He feels Jehane’s pulse where his throat is pressed on one arm. Faint and far down, a splash shatters the quiet. Even the distant sounds of the assault on Central seem to have ceased for the moment, in deference to her passing. Only a soft drone drifts across the cool air, pitched low and steady.

“Just remember one thing,” Dean says in a hoarse whisper. Jehane shifts his head so Dean can see the pale luminosity of his face suspended above Dean’s like one of the stars. “The Miescher Formula has a side effect. For ten to thirty days you’re sick. Delirious.” He bends his neck enough so that the gesture is clearly seen to include the silent, white-clad form of Kuan-yin, flanked by Trenton, standing at the railing, looking down at the gift they’ve given to the sea. “Who do you trust to watch over you?”

A bar of bright light splinters the darkness, starts to close back in on itself as a new figure walks out onto the balcony.

“I’m sorry,” Senator Alastair says to Kuan-yin, obviously not yet seeing Jehane and Dean tangled on the ground at the other end of the balcony. “I thought I heard someone shouting out here.”

The fighting for Central has started up again. Dean can hear the muted sound of laser cannons, but over it all, beginning to drown it out, the high rumbling drone increases in volume. Even the night on the balcony seems to lift slightly, like the moon was rising. The wind off the sea swirls around Dean where he lies pinned to the hard, cold surface of the balcony.

“Fucking Hell,” swears Kuan-yin. “Whose fucking ship is _that_? Trenton, get back inside.” Into her comm. “I want a ten up here at once!”

“Kill them both,” Jehane orders. He releases Dean and springs with preternatural speed to his feet.

Kuan-yin nods. Trenton spins and with cool dispatch shoots Senator Alastair, who’s standing stock still, staring out to sea.

Dean lunges for Jehane’s legs, catches an ankle and brings him down.

Wind screams over them, tearing at his clothes. He can’t even hear Kuan-yin’s curses over the pounding roar of engines. Blinding light shatters the last vestiges of darkness across the balcony, giving Dean a brief glimpse of Kuan-yin striding for the tangle of him and Jehane’s bodies as they fight, of Senator Alastair lying in a pool of blood.

A voice shouts his name.

“Min Winchester! Dean! Be quick!”

Kuan-yin grabs his shoulders and jerks him up. Dean uses the motion to drive back into her and Kuan-yin loses her balance and the grip on her gun. Dean breaks free of her and dives for the pistol.

He comes up to find Jehane already at the door, which opens to admit a group of startled soldiers. Behind him, he feels rather than sees the bulk of one of the _Royal Sovereign’s_ shuttles, coming in toward the balcony, an excruciatingly slow maneuver that has the engines screaming in protest.

Jehane grabs a rifle from one of the soldiers and tosses it with unerring accuracy at Kuan-yin.

Then he says, quite clearly and with sincere feeling, “Damn, I could’ve managed it better.” And escapes inside.

Laser fire burst out from the shuttle, raking the soldiers in the doorway.

Dean leaps for the railing, shooting at Kuan-yin as he moves. But even as he swings his leg over the cold metal fence, the shuttle a vast rising wall behind him, Kuan-yin and the soldiers remaining in the doorway open up on him.

It’s like being shattered into pieces. A web of light and he falls.

And then—nothing.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History is written by the victors.
> 
> * * *

_The world runs in waves, melting with the sky until both are one. He finds the far horizon, becomes it and melts into the sun rising across the lap of the waters._

_Far below in the depths, he can see Dorothy’s face, paler than in life, but at peace. She seems to be breathing. Each slight opening of her lips lets escape a tiny current that spreads, rising and rippling until it becomes the waves that move the ocean itself._

_He would wait to see how far the waves ride to the far shore of hills, but the brilliant whiteness at the heart of the sun draws him and he drifts toward it, letting himself go as it drowns him in its light._

_Except that somewhere out on the waters someone is singing. The sound, plaintive and achingly beautiful, catches him and he pauses._

_Even as he pauses the sun dims, its edges curling in as it sinks into the waves and he can make out the words of the song._

  
_“Hey Jude, don't make it bad_  
_Take a sad song and make it better_  
_Remember to let her into your heart_  
_Then you can start to make it better”_

  


It’s dim in this room, except for the gleaming curve of Baby. She floats next to him, singing softly. A single light shines on her surface.

For a long moment he lies, staring at her and then he realizes that he’s breathing and alive and that his eyes are open.

He blinks. A face appears.

“Dean!” Soft, but triumphantly intense. “Dean. You made it.”

“The Formula.” Dean gasps, fighting for breath against a vast pressure that weighs on his chest. “Got to get it out. Got to get the broadcast out—” He struggles to sit up, but can’t manage it, too numb, or perhaps it’s Sam’s hand on his torso holding him down.

“It’s been done,” Sam tells him. “Don’t worry, it’s been done.”

“You’re sure?” His voice sounds harsh and muted to his ears. “The Miescher Formula, I mean. It got out?”

“Yes.” Sam’s voice fades from its initial cheerfulness to something more soothing. “Yes. Cas’ been distributing the base for months, you know. Everywhere the _Royal Sovereign_ traveled for Jehane. I sent Pinto down with a crate of the base and we set up a message to go out on every net, but one got there ahead of us. Dorothy’s, I believe.”

Dorothy.

“I shouldn’t have told her.” He can feel enough now to clench his fists in frustration. “I shouldn’t have told Dorothy about the Formula, but it was the right thing to do. Hell, Sam, if I hadn’t told Dorothy about it Jehane wouldn’t have had her killed. I should’ve killed him that first time. I shouldn’t have saved his life on Guildford. I should’ve—”

“Hold on, Dean. Hold on. Hold on.” Sam puts a warm hand on his forehead and then Cas appears beside Sam and rather unceremoniously shoves him away. He lays a hand softly on Dean’s throat and just stands silent, breathing, for a long space.

At last he sighs and removes his hand. “Let me give you something to drink,” he says and disappears.

The entire ritual confuses Dean enough to sidetrack his thoughts. As sensation returns slowly to his body, he discovers that his throat is already dry from talking. “Where am I?” he asks, feeling lost.

“You’re on the _Sovereign_ ,” Sam replies, turning solemn as he continues. “When they dragged you in here so shot up that your clothes were half burned off you, we all thought Cas was going to go berserk on the spot. He hasn’t left this room since you came in. He even sleeps at your feet.”

“When I came in?” Dean coughs. The movement racks painfully through his body, but it’s sweet pain, because it proves finally to his satisfaction that he’s alive and whole. “But—Jehane—”

Sam gives a quick, furtive glance around. “Benny was on comm when a message came in to Captain Framingham. He saw to it that it was acknowledged, but that the captain never got it, and then sent Mick down to alert me, Jody, Victor and Cas.”

“Got to think,” Dean says desperately. He tries to move, but he’s encased in some kind of soft, clear plastic, like a wrapping.

A hand touches his cheek gently. Sam moves aside to admit Cas again. “No thinking,” he says. “Drink this.”

The liquid’s cool and tart. Cas moves away, busying himself at the couch Dean lies on and Dean feels the touch of his hands as Cas examines him. The drink acts rather like a catalyst, clearing his mind.

“The only reason you’re not dead is because you pick the right friends,” Sam says, coming back into his restricted line of vision. “You were shot up this side of all Seven Hells. If Cas wasn’t the best damned emergency doctor… He dragged you single handedly back from the edge.”

Dean smiles, as well as he can. “I don’t doubt it.” He attempts to turn his head and succeeds. “Baby.” He doesn’t try to whistle.

_Dean!_ Her cadence in reply is brilliantly resonant with joy. _I despaired, but I didn’t give up hope._

“How did you find me?”

_Dean, indeed I waited, as you instructed me, but when you did not return and I received a message from min Pinto that he had arrived at the port and awaited us there, I grew anxious. I then discovered several messages from you on the net, relaying your position. So did we find you._

Dean looks at Sam for confirmation and he shrugs. “Thank you,” Dean tells them in a muted voice.

Cas returns to the head of the couch. “Out,” he orders Sam. “Give me a few moments, please.”

Sam checks with Dean and he manages to tilt his head slightly. Sam smiles brightly and retreats, promising to return.

For a long moment, Cas just looks at him.

“I guess I was shot up pretty badly,” Dean says. The fact of it seems remote to him now. In the back of his thoughts, he keeps seeing Kuan-yin reaching for her pistol and shooting Dorothy. Trenton dumping her over the side.

“We won’t talk about that,” he replies, brusque. Dean sees a kind of wild desperation inform his face and he shivers, wondering what kind of havoc Cas would wreak if he ever thought Dean _was_ dead.

“All right.” It’s better to think, to plan, than to dwell on the events that led to Dorothy’s murder. “What kind of communications are coming up from Arcadia now? Sam told me that Benny intercepted. Wait.” He pauses to catch his breath, going on. “How long has it been?”

“About forty-eight hours.”

“And Central?”

He shrugs. “Ask Benny. I think Central put up more resistance than Jehane expected. It’s kept him busy enough to neglect us for the moment. We’ve kept you well hidden here from Framingham. For now.”

“Min? Min!” Movement blurs the edges of Dean’s vision and then Paisley appears, triumphantly furtive. “Sure and glory, but we thought you had found ya kinnas for certain.” She reaches past Cas and grabs one of Dean’s hands in her own tattooed ones. “Be it weren’t for Pinto catching you on ya wing as you fell—”

“And here I heard,” Cas says drily, “that you were the one who ran out on that convenient wing in the middle of all that fire and dragged him inside the shuttle.”

Paisley shrugs, a deprecating gesture. “Be it weren’t much, min. But have you heard? Central surrendered!”

She lets go of Dean’s hand and moves away to switch on the comm. Abruptly, Jehane’s voice permeates the tiny space.

“—and I’m grieved to inform you, citizens, that in this moment of our greatest triumph, we have lost a woman without whom we never could have won. Comrade Athena—and, yes, this time indeed Athena is gone, never to return—was murdered in a last act of defiance by Central. Even as we struck against their last stronghold, they sent a traitor into our midst, and _he shot Athena._ ”

A long, potent pause brings a tremor of emotion in Jehane’s voice. “He was trying to prevent Athena’s last, greatest act. It’s no consolation that this traitor is now dead, that his name will never again be spoken—but remember, citizens, Athena died a martyr to bring you what will prove to be the crowning glory of our triumph. The Formula that even now is being broadcast from every net to every planet, every habitation, in Riven space—”

“Wait.” Tears burn in Dean’s eyes as he listens. “He’s lying. _He_ never meant to broadcast the formula.”

“Then he’s too late. Dorothy set it in motion. Jehane can’t stop it now. Although it’s lucky you reminded me that in a place like this, people will still use that kind of gift for their own ends, instead of for the common good. Or I’d never have made the provisions I did.”

“—in every clinic, because this Formula is not a privilege, citizens, to be granted to a few, it’s your right, each and every one of you, to—”

“Turn that off,” Dean snaps. Jehane’s voice vanishes just as Jody storms in.

“Paisley!” she mutters. “I told you no visitors.”

Paisley shrinks back against the couch, seeking protection from Dean even though Dean’s basically immobile and completely without strength.

“You’d better go, Paisley,” Dean says gently. “But thank you and thank Pinto. You saved my life.”

Paisley shrugs, embarrassed. “Be it kinnas returned, min. Weren’t nothing.” She casts a scorching glance at Jody. “But it be poor o’ her not to even let Pinto in to see how you be, seeing as he were ya one as saved you.”

“Paisley,” Jody starts, warning, but Cas intervenes.

“She’s right,” he says unexpectedly. “Pinto ought to come in for a moment.”

Jody glares at him, but complies. Paisley leaves with a grin.

“The very last thing she did,” Dean murmurs.

“That who did?” Jody asks, coming closer.

“Dorothy. It _was_ right to tell her about the Formula and yet Jehane will get the credit for it _and_ the martyr he needs to seal his victory. Damn him.” He coughs. But it doesn’t seem to him that Dorothy would’ve blamed him for any part in her death. Remembering back to their days on Arcadia, Dean wonders if she’d not expected, or even hoped, to die for the cause. “And you know,” he continues slowly, realizing only now that it’s true, “Jehane would’ve had to kill her sooner or later, because of what they both are and if Jehane didn’t, Kuan-yin would have.”

Instead of an answer, he gets a sudden influx of company, all of them quiet as they crowd into the room: Paisley, Pinto, Victor, Alex and Owen, the Mule, Rainbow, Cursive, Diamond, Bela, and Mick, even Brian, looking sullenly pleased to be included in the conspiracy.

“Benny would’a come,” Paisley tells him rebelliously, “but he be on ya comm, and he got to stay there for now. And Sam be on ya watch.”

“I’ll give you five minutes, collectively,” Cas speaks in a tone that no one dares to argue with.

But no one even speaks. They just look at Dean like they’re astonished that he’s alive.

“Well?” he snaps when the silence grows long enough that it fuels him with enough energy to transfer the anger he feels at his own actions in leading them to this pass to the people now watching him. “What are you waiting for?”

Everyone looks at everyone else and then back at Dean.

“I don’t know, my love,” Cas speaks for them. “What are we waiting for?”

“You don’t think Jehane isn’t going to track us down the moment he’s a free hand to spare? We need this ship.”

“Mutiny,” breaths Jody. Her eyes light up with sudden glee.

“Yes,” Dean agrees. “We’ve got no choice. Will you follow me?”

This time the silence is twice as deep and twice as long.

“You know I’m with you,” Jody says finally, breaking the paralysis that has evidently gripped everyone else. Cas has the barest grin on his face.

“Min Winchester!” Paisley says fiercely, unable to restrain herself any longer. “It be _wrong_ o’ you to even _think_ I wouldna’ follow you, down ya haunted way if need be.”

“Might need be,” Dean tells her. “Because I don’t intend spending the rest of what’s evidently going to prove a very long life running from Jehane, even in as fine ship as the _Royal Sovereign_.” He pauses to catch his breath, finding even such a short speech more taxing than he expects, but he’s enough energy to find and meet each pair of eyes and, meeting them, read their assent.

“But what else is there to do?” Jody asks. “Besides turn bootlegger and run?”

Dean looks at Cas. He merely looks up at the ceiling, leaving Dean to sigh and regard his ragtag collection of conspirators.

“We’re taking this boat back where she came from.” He grins, seeing by their expressions that it’s the last possible alternative they’d have thought of.

“Sure,” breaths Paisley, “and glory.”

“But no one’s been that way for centuries. No one even knows—” Victor starts and then he falters. Everyone looks at Cas.

“Exactly,” Dean replies, gathering a burst of strength from the sense of anticipation that charges the air. “Don’t worry. Master Smith always used to tell me that when you’ve tried every other attack, the one you’re left with, however unlikely, must be the right one.”

“What if it doesn’t work?” Jody asks, evidently giving up on her bootlegging dreams.

Dean smiles. “It has to work. Otherwise you’re dead. And I’m not dead yet, am I?”

“Not for lack of trying,” Pinto mutters.

“Pinto,” he starts, suddenly sober. “Your father—”

“Is dead. I know.” He turns and leaves the room.

“All right,” Dean says decisively, before his departure can cloud anyone’s resolve. “Get back to your posts. Jody. Victor. Stay.”

They disperse quickly.

Cas goes back to a carefully examining his readings. “You’re going to need to rest soon,” he warns.

Dean ignores him. “Jody. How many people on board can we count on?”

She frowns. “Captain Framingham’s rubbed more than our people the wrong way. All the Ridanis on board. Some few others,” she pauses to count, “I’d say twenty-three.” Glancing at Victor for confirmation. He nods just in time for Sam to reenter the room.

“Diamond’s taken over our watch point. What’d I miss?” Jody quickly brings him up to speed and Sam also agrees with the count of twenty-three.

“Which leaves?”

“Thirty-six supporting the captain. That leaves us with the advantage, I’d say.” Sam grins.

“With a large advantage. Good. Now, to begin with—”

“Dean.” Cas lays a hand on his wrist, a soft pressure that seems far away to him. “You _must_ rest.”

“But Sam—”

“If Sam, Jody and Victor can’t manage a simple mutiny with these odds and surprise on our side, then you’re better off not commandeering this vessel in the first place. I’d estimate that in two hours this ship’ll be ours.”

Victor chuckles. “Somehow, life never gets dull around you, Dean Smith.”

“No.” The name no longer fits and not just because Ellen Harvelle, Jehane, and even Paisley, have named him differently in recent days. “Not Smith. Master Smith’s dead. Any purpose his name had in living on died with Central and with Jehane’s triumph.” He fails to keep the bitterness from his voice, but his anger is being slowly washed away by a spreading fatigue that’s methodically engulfing his body as he speaks. “I don’t think he’d have wanted me to disinherit my own family forever. Not when they gave us as much as they did. Not when I’ll always be in his.”

Victor looks surprised. “Smith isn’t your real name?”

He smiles, fighting against his fatigue and allows Sam to answer for him. “It’s Winchester. Dean Winchester.”

“Dean,” Cas warns, beginning to sound impatient.

Jody laughs and stands, snapping a smart, jaunty salute at her recumbent commander. “We’ll wake you up, Captain,” she says, half laughing still, “when the ship’s fully at your disposal.”

“Not that soon,” Cas tells them.

Jody grins. “Come on, Victor.” She tugs him by one arm from the room.

Sam takes an extra moment to reach down carefully and hug him before he too leaves.

“There’s too much to do,” Dean insists, looking up at Cas. “You can’t make me sleep.” But even as he says it, he yawns.

“Yes, I can,” Cas replies coolly from away down a deepening well of distance.

Somewhere, echoing up from the depths, Baby is singing:

  
_”Masquerading as a man with a reason_  
_My charade is the event of the season_  
_And if I claim to be a wise man,_  
_it surely means that I don't know_  
_On a stormy sea of moving emotion_  
_Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean_  
_I set a course for winds of fortune”_

  


Dean falls asleep and dreams of Dorothy, whole and untouched by the ills of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hey Jude** by _The Beatles_.  
>  **Carry on Wayward Son** by _Kansas_.
> 
> * * *
> 
> This concludes **Unto The Breach**.  
>  **Home Is Where The Heart is** will begin on Tuesday the 26th of February.


End file.
